. 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. At last the panel swung back into the library. “I may seem unduly— anxious. I hope I may never come near her. It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream. ” “Then, whoever he may be, he is not Meysey Hill,” Courtlaw said.
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