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. He drew her to him with his hands upon her waist. At least—’ ‘Don’t be more of a lunatic than you can help,’ broke in the captain, addressing himself to Melusine.
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