This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. His voice had changed, the joy had gone out of it; and she understood that something from the past had rolled up to spoil this hour. 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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