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. With this person—who was no other than Mr. “Most of it is ugly and frowsy,” she declared, “but it isn’t worth talking about. But her husband, whose deportment to her was considerably changed since the fatal knot had been tied, paid no attention whatever to her grief. ‘But for how long?’ Lady Bicknacre asked apprehensively. Look at me. Here she walked more slowly, looking constantly at the notices in the shop windows. He told me with a coarse nervous laugh.
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