Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. They could not have called it a fatal motor accident if he had not been dead. 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. ‘No, you don’t. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. Perhaps that is why I lost my ambition. Ann Veronica forgot him as soon as she was through the gate, and her face resumed its expression of stern preoccupation.
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