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. [Illustration: Distinctive Pictures Corporation. She was going to him soon and certainly, going to his strong, embracing arms. She sensed his acute frustration as he unzipped her raincoat while trying to kiss her.
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