Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity. 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. Thinking of Mantua, she wandered to the courtyard. “No, I mean that we should assemble ourselves in case your parents arrive home. "It is useless to deny it," replied Jack. ’ He turned to the lodgekeeper behind him, whose shocked fear had given place to a direful frown.
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