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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. A pity you did not think to tell me that part of the tale at the outset. I jumped then—I was not even shaken. It wasn’t clear to me that I had to explain. She addressed her letters, meditated on them for a time, and then took them out and posted them. ’ ‘But why?’ asked Melusine, astonished, and somewhat overwhelmed by the other girl’s volubility.

Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ5LjIxNC4xNDYgLSAyMC0wNS0yMDI0IDE3OjI5OjA1IC0gMTk3MzA3OTExOQ==

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