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 father had determined on a new line. You will also become a very rich man, though I wish that the circumstances had been different. They could not have called it a fatal motor accident if he had not been dead. Lucy aimed the firearm at Rhea’s chest. It was Annabel who spoke. ‘Just what I was going to tell you, miss. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park.
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