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 yet—but it is only part of the chain of ill-luck that seems wound around me. " Ruth's eyes began to glow. Lucy was a hard worker and a good cook and because of those traits she and Sheila had gotten along most of the time. I didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight.
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