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. Yet before she turned once more to resume her flight she schooled herself with an effort to look where it had happened. He then made a sort of running noose, passed it over her body, and taking firmly hold of the bars, prepared to guide her descent.
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