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. You can’t possibly understand!” He began a confused explanation, a perplexing contradictory apology for his urgency and wrath. “How could he call except in your absence, as you are never at home in the afternoon.
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