For a long time she surveyed a row of towering holly-hocks, as though they offered an explanation. 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. Hell, my mom hates everyone, don’t take this personally, but she doesn’t like you very much and she isn’t shy about letting me know. It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing. Heaven will not permit the continuance of such wickedness as you practise.
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