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 wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. ” “Would you mind telling me,” Anna asked, “how long I knew you in Paris?” He looked at her sideways.
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