The arrival of the cart at the end of Field Lane, appeared the signal for an attempt at rescue. "What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. 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. How was I to know what would happen? He always said if he couldn’t get you a dowry, you could take the veil.
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