2. 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 wants you—or he doesn’t; and then he helps some other woman against you. Around her neck was a little gold chain. ‘Let her go. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. ’ ‘Of what use to be ladylike when I cannot be a lady?’ ‘None of that.
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