The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. The boat was set free, and the men resumed their seats. She got home every night in time to cook supper and it was good money. 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. She auditioned and got a summer job teaching violin at the Mozart summer music camp for children, catching the luckiest of breaks.
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