“Don’t fence with me,” Anna cried fiercely. Do you know, I am beginning to believe that we only exist nowadays by the tolerance of these millionaire tradesmen. 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. “No, he wouldn’t come here of all places—just now. ” “When?” “At tea.
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