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. ’ Her lips parted, but she did not speak. White looked mysteriously about the room as though to be sure that no one was listening. ” “My wife was astounded—wounded beyond measure. We begin rehearsing on Monday at the ‘Garrick’. She mentally reprimanded herself to alter her own visage so as not to appear depraved. It does sound a little horrid to talk so much about oneself and to have views. ‘I am not French in the least, bête.
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