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. Her cargo is nearly shipped. “Father,” she cried, “I have to live!” He misunderstood her. ’ Mrs Sindlesham abruptly sat up straighter in her chair. ” He resumed, after a mouthful: “Here is a girl of sixteen or seventeen, seventeen and a half to be exact, running about, as one might say, in London. ” Part 2 Then it was the expostulations really began. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910.
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