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. “Guess who I’m going out with?” Michelle asked her one day at lunch. " "What faith is to be kept with a felon?" replied the woollen-draper, disdainfully. You must wait till supper's over. "Can't you guess?" returned Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck. "Those tears will do you good.
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