“You did not tell me that you were going out, or I would have offered my escort. 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. “It is very good of you to come and see me, my dear sister,” Annabel remarked, throwing herself into a low chair, and clasping her hands over her head. ‘And this is not all,’ went on the lady, evidently determined to disclose all her wrongs. Wood in their favour. At length she hit upon it: bubbling water.
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