He seemed to be trying to understand something very perplexing and elusive. Oh, don't worry. 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. ‘Neither do I,’ he responded, frowning, ‘but for Gerald’s sake, I’ll do anything I can. His sister followed.
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