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. "Allow him that small grace," cried Wood. “Have you never met a suitable wife? What is wrong with getting married and having children as Mike and Shari have done? I should love to think. “My word holds,” she said. ‘Pitiful. "Sounds as if I had heard it, but I can't place it this minute. "What does he say?" roared the long drover. Can't I make you understand? Perhaps it sounds cruel to you; but we women often have to be cruel defensively.
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