She played “Happy Birthday” for John, after which they plied her with a dozen requests. 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 don’t know why. My reception at West Kensington you know of. ‘Certainly no one will find it. “You have dyed your hair and darkened your eyebrows. The black clad students streamed slowly to their positions carrying their instruments like offerings to the pilgrimage. This, then, must be the person whom he had seen spring upon the western platform at the time of the collision between the boats.
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