“I can say no more. Four prisoners, termed "The Partners," had charge of this hold. 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. She fluttered her eyelashes, and adopted the soulful tone that served her well at times. Her whole conduct and tone had been modest and ladylike. Lucy sat paralyzed, as still as Tiger Lily on the death raft. .
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