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She thought her niece very hard and very self-possessed and self-confident. Come along, you mad jade. I would have heard her. What you said wanted saying. 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. He gave you a poison. On the morrow Spurlock (who was unaware that he had offered a prayer) let down the bars to his reserve.
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