Her fingers were bursting through her gloves, as if to get at once into touch with Ann Veronica. “You look more like your old self when you smile,” he remarked. Come along home, Ruth. Her fingers closed upon it instinctively. 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. "We're all damaged—we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices.
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