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 suppose most people’s letters are queer. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. It’s a damned hard thing to do. “Uh, can you get me a soda or something?” She said, shielding her exposed teeth with her hand. "I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle. good, miss.
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