Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over. Mama will be expecting me. The man pulled up. 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. Courtlaw. He touched it again, and this time it was not withdrawn. It wouldn’t be you.
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