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. “I have been training myself to look askance at beautiful things. Life waits for us. Your pets are gone. ” John’s father added, “I came home to find Carolyn in a panic and fire trucks outside my son’s bedroom.
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