Together they made their painful way to the door, not even checking, in the effort this cost both, on what Gosse might be doing. The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome. She was no longer a confederate in that. 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. Kneebone.
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