She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. Too intent on her search, and convinced besides that she was quite alone, she had been an easy prey. You heard her. But she did not listen long; she wanted to talk. Distress, deep-rooted, and age old. 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 know that, miss.
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