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. But you want one quality, without which all others are valueless. I know you. Miraculously, her schoolmates were so upswept in their own summer planning that they had no time to interrogate her. Please don’t let any one know that. Ovarian cancer.
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