I’m not mad that he has eyes for you instead of me, not mad at all. Enter the house with your men. Her cheeks flushed a dull red. 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. It's my way when I'm ruffled. But before he could say anything, the vehicle rolled to a halt. .
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