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. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. “But who could have lent you money?” “I pawned my pearl necklace. It was red and chapped. ” He frowned. “I am off to-night,” he said.
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