“There’s no end of things I’d like to talk over with you. You are not with the Kent militia, are you?’ ‘West Kent, yes. Her relationship with John had made her the object of desire for scores of teenage boys who had dared not previously think of her in such a way. 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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