He was there concealed, waiting her return. Yet her hands dropped, and she sighed deeply. " When the doctor entered the bedroom and looked into the faces of the culprits, he laughed brokenly. 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. “Why, it’s David!” he exclaimed. In her usual style, she interviewed him for his life and was pleased that he liked nothing more than to talk about himself. I could not love you else.
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