“Don’t come nearer!” she said. For the first time he seemed to wonder what it might be that she had to confess. The Vorsack house bore the stamp of Diane in every visible spot. 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. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days.
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