” “Your husband,” he answered bluntly. When she awoke she felt as if she were adrift on a soft cloud through a golden sky. 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. " "We know it," cried several voices.
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