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. Except for the dull eyes and the extreme pallor of his face, there was nothing else to indicate that he was deep in liquor. I don’t want to get old or to watch my kids get married or retire. McClintock does it; and he knows why. ‘Good.
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