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. I care not. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. ‘Seems to me like you know just about as much as me. ‘Oh my God,’ uttered Gerald in some dismay. ‘I must see the lady who is my great-aunt. "I'd rather you went over the last four chapters, which I haven't polished yet.
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