" "Oh, it's a part of the game," said McClintock. He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. 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. But you couldn't.
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