Do you think she does?” Ann Veronica picked among her salad with a judicial expression of face. “Dare!” she said. 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. Let this be a caution to you in future—with whom, and about what you deal. You don't want me to spoil the story, do you?" "No. “You have even her name.
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