‘Do not imagine that I will leave poor Jacques. G. 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. Apparently he had projected beyond his table some hypnotic thought, for it had held him all through the dining hour. She treaded down the hall swiftly but stopped abruptly when she heard a voice in back of her.
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