‘You could have fetched me home. There was no keeping Sheila from the truth, and it was better that anyone who lived under her roof knew it. E. “You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean. "Are you a poltroon, after all?" "That's it! I ought to have died that night!" "Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude. He came as an agreeable diversion from an insoluble perplexity. 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.
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