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. There was no one to be seen in the great hall. I do not say guest because that suggests friendship; and I am no friend of this Wastrel. He had found her in a communicative mood, and he used the accumulated skill of years in turning that to account. ” She yelled back. After all, his was a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, and very likely Annabel had behaved badly.
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