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. ‘What was you wanting it for, may I ask?’ ‘You may not ask, for it is none of your affair,’ Melusine snapped. Sepulchre's church was covered—so was the tower. Prudence twinkled at them, and reached out to pat Melusine’s hand. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter.
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