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 had never been able to discover where her father had hidden his shaving mirror. ‘I do not wish to be like him, but it is entirely reasonable that it should be so. You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. Mrs. ‘I thought, you see, that we might as well enter by the same way our intruder had done. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. Double-crossing wouldn't do any good.
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