“You are a funny, a very funny young lady,” he said, “but we waste time here. So I've grown hard—outside. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. . He glanced at the ruins of his High Priestess. 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.
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