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 had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis. He parried without apparent effort. "Take off these chains, Rowland," said Lady Trafford, "instantly, I command you. He stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss Klegg’s back. Brown, Lucy, and Martin Chen were at the center of the joyous horde. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. "Something more than whisky did that.
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