He tugged at the overly large hooded sweatshirt, which she unzipped and let fall to the ground. 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. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. "We must change the subject," remarked Thornhill, pausing in his task; "this will never do. Good night! God bless you!" Upon this, there was a great shaking of hands, with renewed apologies and protestations of friendship on both sides; after which Mr. Knap.
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