She wondered wildly why she had stood up. Wood—" "That's false!" cried a voice behind him. We were going at a mad pace. ” “Why did you tell me? I thought—I thought we were going to be friends. 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. After all, it is not long since that a Catholic nun in this country would have had to remain in hiding.
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