" The girl fished into the bottle for an olive. Indeed, a note of weeping broke her voice for a moment as she burst out, “You know as well as I do that money was a loan!” “Loan!” “You yourself called it a loan!” “Euphuism. . She could not go to him when it was apparent that he needed her beyond all other instances! What had caused this agony did not matter—then. . ’ ‘Pah!’ ‘Precisely. I should have gotten out of here months ago!” She opened the passenger side and reclined in the bucket seat. 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. Loneliness. But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting to see him, who won't be sent away. Almost the best of all. You are your nephew's executioner, or he is yours.
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