Her own pack was so light that she left it in the locker. 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. Her aunt was a long time before she answered. "I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle. Chapter XXIII MONTAGUE HILL SEES LIGHT AT LAST At exactly ten minutes past ten Annabel rang the bell of her sister’s flat. Wood, however, was too much excited to attend to the caution. She had other boyfriends and hung out at Foster’s only bar most of the time.
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