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 thought Alice a bit of a sneak, an opinion her brothers shared, and Gwen rather a snatch at meals. A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin. He did not speak for a moment. Now I do. I have been sitting with him ever since. " Mr. ” She took the pocket-book and looked up at him with a little impulsive movement. The thought of the picture but added to her despondency.
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