He thought, too, of the fretful invalid who lay in the next room to his, whose money had created his business and made his position in the world. “I don’t love him,” said Ann Veronica, getting a gleam. 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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