gutenberg. ‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding. The man’s passion became almost unbearable at the thought of losing her. 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 attacked his hair resolutely. .
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