” He uttered thoughtfully. "If you've a fancy for the girl, we might do it. 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. His attraction for her was now written plainly on his freckled face, revealed by the many drinks he had imbibed. Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. Monroe would lock the whole group of us in the basement, every day. Close behind him stood the tall gaunt figure of Marvel, with his large bony hands, his scraggy neck, and ill-favoured countenance. I am not boring you, am I?” She raised her eyes to his and smiled into his face. “Sort of man who can see no further than his nose,” he remarked contemptuously.
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