“But if you weren’t keen on the suffrage business, why on earth did you go to prison?” Ann Veronica reflected. But his role was altered, and he was now playing the bridegroom in this remarkable drama. Her aunt was a long time before she answered. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. White became conscious of a distinct sense of uneasiness, and showed it in her face. 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.
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