I want you. 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. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. ‘They hold their nose up, so. She did not know herself. ” “That is quite untrue,” she declared cheerfully.
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