My family’s Palazzo is not as grand as the Palazzo Vecchio, but it is a wonderful place that you will adore, I promise. 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. A deep silence, however, now prevailed, broken only by the tolling of the bells of Newgate and St. He saw that she was tense. It was no marriage at all. Had he but known it, his outburst had done him no harm in the major’s eyes.
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