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Her eyes were soft and grave, and there was the faintest of smiles upon her resolute lips. CHAPTER XVI. Go back at once, please. Much more temperate; the discreet and joyless love of a virtuous, reluctant, condescending wife. 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. I don’t care what divides us. Wood, who were, furthermore, engaged in a little conjugal tête-à-tête of their own. “I believe you are quite right so far as regards the present, at any rate,” someone remarked, from the depths of an easy chair.
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