“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Two hours had come and gone during this tantalizing occupation. And she did not merely affect to be driven—she felt driven. “Morning, Mom. ” He shook his head. 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. This time, there was no doubt, she did not sleep.
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