“You must not think of me as one. He wasn't satisfied with an assured income from the paper-mills your grandfather left us. ‘How do you do? I am so happy to meet you. 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. You will forgive my remarking, Anna, that I consider there is a great change in your manner towards me and your general deportment since our marriage. Will you please—Not now, or I must go. "You poor child!" said Prudence. Fast asleep, he is.
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