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. Lucy stole her last chance to observe Martin Chen, looking provocatively into his 257 eyes as the door was shut. Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. "Save me!—save me!" "Damnation!" vociferated Jonathan, savagely. ’ He sighed. She kept her face downcast.
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