She had never felt so acutely the desire for free initiative, for a life unhampered by others. You knew me in Paris. “What you have said is a ridiculous falsehood,” she declared scornfully. 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. But I suppose as I’ll have to wait until you can hear me to tell you again. But I may yet live to thwart them.
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