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. “Tell your sister she was right to shoot, quite right. They were on their way back home, or so she had thought. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. " "And so Sir Rowland murdered his friend," remarked Wood.
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