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. The image did not move. She closed her eyes more vividly to recall some line which had carried the blot. Until the last moment she was afraid. “When can we be alone together?” She asked him, never loosening her grip.
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