His sister followed. "Where can I hide myself?" he added, glancing round the room in search of a closet. Why, he can scarcely be twenty. That is the dreadful truth. ‘Do not beg my pardon. She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste. “No, I am alone,” she answered. But it's an odd case. 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. She wondered what the problem was, why the buildup? She wanted to go to his apartment that evening but stayed herself.
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