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. Soot was everywhere, for the lamp would not stay trimmed in the gale. She had not seen Ramage for ten or eleven days, and she was quite ready for a gossip with him. “Stuffy these trees make the Avenue,” said Mr. "Bury her in Willesden churchyard, as she requested, on Sunday," said Jack. His subconscious sensed the unnaturalness of it and recoiled. Major said you’d gorn. Pitt?" "Certainly, Sir James, certainly," replied the governor.
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