“Why will you not be sensible? Go back to your old life and your old friends, and forget all about Paris and this absurd delusion of yours. ’ The girl held out her hands. "You want him?" "Please!" said Ruth. 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. “Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself.
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