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. "There's a guinea to drink our health," she added, slipping a piece of money into his hand. Something in her voice and manner conveyed an effect of unwonted gravity to him. These were the Master of the Mint, Van Galgebrok, and Mrs. They were horrible people.
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