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. 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. “I don’t see what he has to do with my coming to London?” “He—he worships the ground you tread on. Remember, some day you and I are going to have that book. “Yes, I remember,” she said. I'm not particular what or where.
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