" So saying, he raised a whistle to his lips, and blew a loud call; and, as this was unanswered, another still louder. He saw that his words were falling upon dull ears. And what did she do? Not only did she cut his hand in her rage, but she refused to let him help her, and then she ran away from him. Still unconscious of anything he did physically. 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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