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 Ruth?" "Yes," said Ruth, stirred by anger and bitterness and astonishment. "You frighten the cull out of his senses. So many things she saw that her interest stumbled rather than leaped from object to object. ” She said in Lucy’s direction. “In a sense—yes. But it is all over now, and presently there will be some one else. Nothing like the direct approach, she thought. Do you know, I envy you. Loved his memory still, for all he knew.
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