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. You can trust me, Anna. What would happen when confronted by the actual? He was young; she was also young and physically beautiful—his lawful wife. " "In whose favour is it made?" he inquired, sternly. She heard this standard expression of a strong soul wrung with a critical coldness that astonished herself. "My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers.
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