Ennison stood still for a moment, swinging his latchkey upon his finger. But the young man with the orange tie remained in his place, disputing whether the body had not something or other which he called its legitimate claims. 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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