We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. A slender young man, wearing glasses, appeared from the shadow of the nearest van. He sat down beside her and stroked her hair. He could neither stifle nor deaden that. 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. " "Ah! indeed! what's he doing here?" inquired Jack. “By Jove!” he broke out, “one tries to take a serious, sober view. "Have nine years so changed me, that there is no trace left of your adopted son?" "God bless me!" ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, "can—can it be?" "Surely," screamed Mrs.
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