"What are you waiting for?" asked Jack, impatiently. 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. Pitt, pointing to the prisoner. His name is John. So that Ann Veronica was not able to get the expert advice she certainly needed upon her spiritual state.
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