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. You’ll never even see me again, for that 268 matter. This time she feinted as his point came up to deflect her own, and disengaging, passed under and cut at his cheek.
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