Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. Curiosity to see what a sing-song girl was like took possession of Ruth's thoughts. Twice she smiled, but not unkindly. 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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