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 is hard to be distant from your own mother. ’ ‘Married?’ ‘I did mention Madame Valade, did I not?’ At that, a growl of startling ferocity escaped her lips. With the extra seventy-five pounds she had put after birthing her final son, Steven, her knees weren’t in good shape to be running up and down stairs all day. The order was promptly obeyed, and the horses proceeded at a furious pace along the Edgeware Road.
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