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. He saw the expression on the girl's face and understood what it signified, that it was the reflected pattern of his own. It was a look that accorded very well with the hayloft setting that had come to mind. It was easy to recognize, the one thing that had stayed the same over the years.
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