No matter. “I suppose you’re like the rest of them. It is impossible. But I don’t suppose you can understand. 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. I can’t rest or work or settle down to anything while things are like this between you and me. This was in Texas. But this afternoon it discovered an unusual vein of irritability in her. " And, having partaken of a hasty breakfast, he set out.
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