“Mr. I went off to round up his wife. —Though if my name should become as famous as theirs, it wouldn't much matter. gutenberg. 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. "What does Mr. I am a single man, and——” “Thank you,” she interrupted. ” He shook her diminutive hand.
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