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, Anna, are one of them. And now take away those cards, and never let me see them again. The Closing Scene. She could tell that he probably wanted to kiss her, but she did not act upon the opportunity.
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