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. \"Is there something desperately wrong with your house?\" \"There is nothing wrong with our house. —Strype's Stow. I'll watch over these infants, if that's your worry. My Mom inherited our house from our Grandma, otherwise they never could have afforded it, not even twenty years ago. Earles is going out at twelve sharp—important engagement.
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