Anna, I listened to all that he had to say, and I called to him to let me get out. She saw how overworked he was. 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. “I had a dream in the night,” she said. “If I didn’t love you better than myself,” said Capes, “I wouldn’t fence like this with you.
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