She was glad not to be baking in it anymore, or feeling the fiberglass splinters 64 invading her rear end from sitting on the bleachers. 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. Sheppard is, without your information, Sir. Kentish family. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. What marriage really meant (aside from the idea of escape), Ruth had not the least conception, no more than a child.
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