Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years. "It is never too late. But escape to where? She thought of the ships that sailed from the peninsulas to hot deserts where spices were traded. She was practically an outcast, she had not even the ghost of a plan as to her future, and she had something less than five pounds in her pocket. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. Her new husband was pleased to watch the astonished look on her face as tray after tray appeared on the grand table, each better than the next.
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