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. And it has been well for you that he imagines the child was drowned. “Well anyhow—I don’t see the force of your objection, you know. She aimed directly at Rhea’s head.
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