. 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. “Now step aside, I have some business to attend to. Sheppard. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. "Not materially, Mr. . "Thanks to you," said the doctor.
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