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’ ‘Who, Joan, who? Of whom do you speak?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham. They will claim particular attention hereafter. 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. So she built a shrine. "You!" cried Jack, scornfully. “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger.
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