Did he talk a little when you took him into the city?" "No. 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. Is it so, Annabel?” “I did not know,” she faltered, “anything about you. But if not himself, there would be another soon enough. The distinction lay chiefly in the right to pat their heads.
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