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. “I want my life to be beaten gold just in order to make it a fitting setting for yours. Brown was no fool, and he understood the sudden onus of the other children to share the limelight. The calvacade was now put slowly in motion. "I've done with you. His eyes were narrow with desire like a panther’s as he grinned at seeing her visibly satisfied. He drew her to him with his hands upon her waist.
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