“Don’t!” cried Ann Veronica, struggling faintly, and he released her. “My dad is into this stuff. 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. “Yes?” he said. Aroused by the sound of the church bells, he resolved, at whatever risk, to attend Divine service.
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