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. There was a gulf of eight years between her and the youngest of her brace of sisters—an impassable gulf inhabited chaotically by two noisy brothers. \" She opened her eyes widely, as to better appear unworldly and unscathed. Remember ——” Annabel clutched her sister’s arm. ’ Lady Bicknacre, resplendent in purple satin, and basking in her triumphantly full rooms—for it was obvious that her patronage of the refugees had set a quickly to be followed fashion—was all sorrow and sympathy when Gerald spoke of them. But who would pay the ransom? There was no one left in his family. "Do you still refuse to make one!" "I have made one," replied Lady Trafford. Figg?" asked Gay. Looking sullen, he released the handle and sat back.
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