” “I didn’t mind that little argument. . Mr. One might suppose him turning up; he knew a lot of clever people, and some of them might belong to the class. He turned round to keep Anna out by force if possible, but he was too late. 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.
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