The curtains which she had left drawn were open, and the electric lights were turned on. It’s made up of things as small as the diameter of hairs and big as life and death. 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. It seemed to him that speech would be an anticlimax. She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair. Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off.
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