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. And by degrees, perhaps, that maiden distrust of yours that makes you shrink from my kisses, will vanish. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me.
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