She kept thinking she was thinking about Mr. I was certain of it. It creaked slightly. “I can’t imagine what has come over you,” said her aunt. 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 took his hand in hers. “You know about my scandalous past?” “Very little. ” Annabel looked intently into her glass.
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