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’ She inclined her head, looking up at him through her lashes, and passing a tongue lightly over her lips. 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. I was the black sheep, I was hurried out of the way. The same overly curly pubic hair, which she now saw was trying to protrude from the sides of her bikini underwear.
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