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 didn’t understand before that letter. This was the first young man who had drawn from her something more than speculative interest. Goopes down on him with the lesson Titian teaches so beautifully in his “Sacred and Profane Love,” and became quite eloquent upon the impossibility of any deception in the former. “And I’m not happy. 9. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. “They seem to come to you as naturally as disappointment—to other people.
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