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. He loved you. I was certain of it. There was a loose button on that coat, and I want to sew it on. “A man like that taints a girl by looking at her, by his mere conversation. She pulled herself together and put her eye to the eye-piece.
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