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. “I will tell you all that I know,” Anna said. . . We must wash out those stains up stairs, and burn the cloth. ” “When?” “At tea. And they admired Kent sedulously from the windows. She remembered Taber's hat. If you don’t eat humble-pie now you may live to fare worse later.
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