“Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. He flipped the television off. 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. White was scattered across the long stretches of pine trees and corn fields. Her nurse says she may live some time; but she seems to me to be sinking fast. Knap. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side.
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