Across that world was written in letters of light, “Endowment of Motherhood. . There was a young lad ahead of her. "You!" cried Jack, scornfully. ‘It is the life I know. Thrilling, she began to dance, swirled, glided, and dipped. Spurling, hastening to the rescue. 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.
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