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. ’ ‘Well for him,’ remarked Captain Roding. Mrs. ‘Where’s the sense in running away?’ ‘Doesn’t trust me,’ Gerald said briefly. Died short, I suppose, and the girls had to shift for themselves. It wasn’t.
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