“That’s exhilarating,” said Ann Veronica. Andrew's church, the bell of which was tolling, was covered with spectators. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. 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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