However, it doesn't much signify. 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 wiped the sweat from his chin and forehead. Why did he imagine she was making this journey to England? She feigned interest. She could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not. They were the three most beautiful women I had ever seen. Please yourself. It was a reputation by no means deserved.
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