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. I know nothing of that young lady. . They could no longer stay in one place. For her it was sufficient to know that somebody wanted her, that never again would she be alone, that always this boy with the dreams would be depending upon her. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. Don’t leave me in this beastly thing. You can have no shecrets from me. “Now, Veronica,” he pleaded, “Veronica, this is most unreasonable.
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