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. ” “And our destinations also, it seems,” she added, smiling. I ought to have seen—” “It doesn’t matter a rap—if you’re not disposed to resent the—the way I behaved. Give way, and let us render what assistance we can to the poor wretch.
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