Of course Ruth was not aware that in this same volume there were lyrics known the world over. 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 would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. She made a double kill mid-month in a trailer park, a forty year old man and his seventeen year old wife, finding out too late that she was seven weeks pregnant. Let me keep him.
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