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. And now you know. We girls, my sister and I, were left quite alone when our father died, and I made up my mind to make some little place in the world for myself. It seemed to him that speech would be an anticlimax. She directed the orchestra to tune again. Even he was not oblivious to it, and after about two minutes of awkward French kissing, he pulled away. G. ‘But what is it that amuses you, Jacques?’ Kimble’s grin spread wider.
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