‘I beg your pardon?’ said Gerald. “Don’t you have a wife? Where are your children?” She asked. 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. She felt this was the sensible way out of this oddly sinister situation. The entrance was barred against them; and they had the additional mortification of hearing Sheppard's loud laughter at their discomfiture.
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