Do not believe it, Madam. But to England we will go. 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. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Michelle, I truly don’t. " "A terrible dream, indeed," said Jonathan thoughtfully. "Here!" shrieked Lady Trafford.
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