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. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. Listen to your mother's prayers, and do not let her die brokenhearted.
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