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. Silly woman!. "I shall want a bottle or two of sack, and a flask of usquebaugh. ” She disengaged herself from him and went out of the room with a grave, preoccupied expression. He was always forgetting that his tummy was fifty-four years old.
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