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. There were moments when she thought of turning upon this man and talking to him. "He stands before you," rejoined her son. So long as she could remember, her father had never permitted her to sit at the table unless she came fully dressed.
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