I want to love him. 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. Annabel, tell me that you did not wish me dead. Then she went in and up-stairs, hesitated on the landing, and finally, a little breathless and with an air of great dignity, opened the door and walked into Ann Veronica’s room. “You will be so good as to leave us your correct name and address, mademoiselle,” he said curtly. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is.
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