“But, dear, think! He is your father. She wrenched her head away from his grip and got her arm between his chest and hers. ‘You said?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham, your great-aunt, miss. “Let me know the truth. 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. Once inside, he looked around, worried that his parents would suddenly cancel their trip and return home.
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