I’d take it— forgive me if I seem a little urgent—as a sort of proof of friendliness. 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. “Not for these things, O Ann Veronica, have you revolted,” it said; “and this is not your appropriate purpose. Ann Veronica felt no repulsion at the prospect. He continued his ditty, in spite of the angry glances of his leader. Ah! but you can’t imagine what you are to me and what you mean to me! I suppose there is something mystical and wonderful about all women.
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