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. He might have been a complete innocent, she did not know and did not bother to find out. To these she added the wine and spirits directed, and when all was arranged looked inquisitively at her master. ‘And I do understand.
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