So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. “I loathe afternoon concerts, and——” She was really like her sister he thought, impressed for a moment by the soft brilliancy of her smile. 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. “And let’s have a look at you, Vee!” said Mr. “I must confess,” he said, “the New Woman and the New Girl intrigue me profoundly.
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