Mr. 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. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. “And some of them quite pretty and well dressed. Never really thought about Him—people don’t. Supposing he too wanted love and his arms were as empty as hers? Some living thing that depended upon her.
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