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He is the kind of man who would much prefer a little dust in his eyes. Go to it. ” He crossed his arms. " "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily. 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. “Good God!” he exclaimed. He stopped in mid-sentence, and Ann Veronica opened the door for her aunt. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. Milky sunlight spilled on the floor. "That's for Mrs.
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