Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. 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. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. I too, Anna, have watched and read of your success with—I must confess it—some misgiving. Everywhere else—the law, medicine, the Stock Exchange—prejudice bars us.
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