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. "And, oh! forgive me, though I can never forgive myself, for the misery I have caused you. In a few minutes, an appalling change was perceptible. 1. But I see now.
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