"Do they treat you ill?" asked her son. This done, Edgeworth Bess, who watched her opportunity, slipped out of the Lodge. “I am the most foolish of men. 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. They smelled good, but they no longer smelled like food.
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