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. Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. ’ ‘With ease, mademoiselle,’ he countered, catching her blade. ’ ‘You may not get the chance. Ann Veronica had no answer for a moment.
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