‘You knew her well, Miss Mary?’ Mrs Ibstock turned at the window. Anna felt that her words had become charged with a fuller and more subtle meaning than any which she had intended to impart. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. 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. All the same, I wish I had that fellow by the throat! Just the virile, unregenerate man in me wishes that.
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