“Much better. “Please search everywhere,” she said. 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. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death.
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