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. His perception of her personal beauty deepened and quickened with each encounter. ‘I do not believe you. Lucy? Come 177 on out. We’d soon cool that temper of yours.
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