Tears sprang to her eyes. For Ruth was in love, tenderly and beautifully in love; but she did not know how to express it beyond the fetch and carry phase. . They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. If you can imagine it, I survived it. 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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