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 cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. “And by what right do you do anything of the sort?” “No right at all,” he admitted. Then for the first time she was conscious of an unaccountable and terrifying sensation. The odd creak was not to be avoided in an old house such as this. She was practically an outcast, she had not even the ghost of a plan as to her future, and she had something less than five pounds in her pocket. " "Do not distress him, dear father," said Winifred; "he suffers deeply.
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