The family always managed to make it home for supper, even though it was a dying custom. His last actions were futile. 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. Only an undermaid I was then. “But I don’t see,” said Ann Veronica, “just how it fits the present situation.
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