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. ‘And you come to me, thinking yourself half French, and expect me to take you in. She thought her niece very hard and very self-possessed and self-confident. Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done. Makes you real. "I'm only a benighted fool; and having said that, I have said everything.
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