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. "It's runnin' a great risk. " "What did I say?" "Only one word," she said, offering her first white lie. It’s just hard to keep things from her. His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe.
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