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. She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window. “Mom, this is the girl I asked to Prom, Lucy. ’ A reluctant laugh escaped him. . ” It was settled. I've my own reasons for disliking this job. And as these things should always be treated as matters of business, I'll just draw up a memorandum of our arrangement.
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