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. She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them. ” She shook her fist ceilingward. I’d do anything, Vee. It was a face that matched her body, so pure and beautiful that any man would have killed for her.
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