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 would compose extremely lucid and honorable explanations. ‘But I’ve known that for years. That would come later. You understand me, Charcoal. So far as the eye could reach, the white level road, with its fringe of elm-trees, was empty.
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