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. At a turn in the road, he perceived Winifred looking anxiously towards him, and when she discovered him, she waved her hand. It was on the night of the Great Storm that I found him. Wood trembled. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. It was a reputation by no means deserved.
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