An inarticulate instinct which now found expression. 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. The man muttered something inaudible, and gathered up the reins. ’ ‘Also madame his wife—’ Charvill’s gorge rose. “Believe me, I know. Outside the door stood one of the soldiers. "All I want is to be happy!" she said aloud, as if she were asking for something of such ordinary value that God would readily accord it to her because there was so little demand for the commodity.
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