It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. 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. ’ ‘Yes, but in fact you’ve offered me far more entertainment than any French spy could have done.
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