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. "You'll not forget the thousand, Sir Rowland—short accounts, you know. You came to me, you wished me to speak to Anna. Her thoughts were busy with the possibilities of this break in her journey. . I firmly believe that she is as straight as a die. But if I escape, my gratitude—" "Pshaw!" interrupted Jonathan, scornfully. You look like a movie star. She took up the poker and stirred the fire vigorously. He became really companionable, discussed the new story he had in mind, and asked some questions about colour.
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