A strong arm pulled her closer, and the lips that mouthed her own in tender touches sent her senses reeling. But you must tell her. 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. “Indeed,” she said, “it was very fortunate that I should have met you this afternoon.
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