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. He could not doubt it. Accounted extremely pretty in her youth, her features and person expanded as she grew older, without much detriment to their original comeliness. . She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. But I can give it its name now. “Does it hurt?” Michelle asked. I can be a gentleman.
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