“The fact is—I don’t know why—this takes me by surprise. “I don’t care a rap for remembering. 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. ” She roused herself from some dream at the word. "For the sake of the girl. There was a hint of tears in her voice. For all the enervating heat, he applied himself vigorously to his tasks.
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