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. Manning’s proposal of marriage. “You are a dear,” she exclaimed affectionately. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. 9. “Don’t you get it, Lucy? I’ve always thought he was an idiot. Lord help him! he's the very image of his father. It's fine with me if it's fine with Cathy, darlin’.
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