She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust. The lady murmured briefly to her husband, and then tucked her hand into Alderley’s arm. 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.
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