While this was taking place, another and more serious interruption occurred. 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. ‘Can’t you trust me a little?’ His touch sent shivers running through her, but Melusine did not withdraw her hand. Hurt beyond what he could imagine by the selfishness and pride of her forbears, whose fateful disputes had robbed her of the life she should have led, the plucky little devil had taken matters into her own hands. Henceforth Ruth would closely observe her fellow women and note the hang of their skirts.
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