She stole her glances sideways like the rest of the women. 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 cannot—will not suffer you to remain here. \"Yes, she may stay for dinner if it is all right with her 43 parents. She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. " "Those terms were a third of my estate," observed Trenchard bitterly.
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