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. It had not tasted good since 1350. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. ‘Are you going to come quietly, mademoiselle?’ he demanded with grim determination. You never can tell.
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