47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. ‘It was your son who left the place empty then?’ he asked. The meat was coarse and disagreeably served. 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.
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