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 set down her glass with a snap. Waving a white flag, naturally. ’ The lashes fluttered demurely. Usually his charges bored him with their interrogative chatter, for he knew that his information more often than not went into one ear and out of the other. One day it was gone.
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