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 are jealous,” she declared contemptuously. "'Sdeath!" cried Hogarth, aside to the poet. Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. She relented out of exhaustion, yet he would not let her near Marina, his embrace tightening. ” She shook her head. “I wonder,” said Ramage, “that more girls don’t think as you do and want to strike out in the world.
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