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. Stow it in the saddle, for I will take it with me. You know nothing of life, nothing of its dangers, nothing of its possibilities. “Ugh!” she said. Not fit to be dust on your boots.
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