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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. “I want to have no distractions. After all, his was a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, and very likely Annabel had behaved badly. So, instead, they talked of dancing and what it might mean in a human life. “Do you need me to tell you? You have tasted the luxury of power.
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