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 want to know who you are. I shall know what to say to him when he comes. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. "I dare say she has called to inquire about Jack. Having ascertained by the breathing which room Thames occupied, he speedily contrived to fasten him in. We can take our things up with us and stay at the Continental or the Ritz.
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