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. Earles said, rubbing his hands together, “by post. " "Confidentially, I'm assured that he has another. " She rose. " CHAPTER XI. You know as well as I do that it was accident.
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