A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. 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. “An annuity—a sum of money paid to you yearly or quarterly through my solicitors, and which you can consider as a gift from your sister. Now we meet again, and you will scarcely look at me. She had tried to shift the subject of conversation away from herself and was even managing successfully until Chen the father addressed her.
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