“It’s the spring,” he said. ‘Go you through the passage and find the other door. ‘I should never have told you. 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. Always remember that. “But who’s going to pay for the room?” “I’ve got money,” said Ann Veronica. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention.
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