’ For a moment or two there was dead silence in the parlour. Period trying desperately to cover her nudity with a dingy hand towel she had found lying on the floor in a corner. 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. Then he threw the letter at me. "But, let that pass. I knew it.
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