” He played it cool, but he had seen it in her face. “You are neither of you in the least like the ordinary boarding-house young man. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. 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. ‘Who’s this, then? Not soldiers again. ‘Very wise,’ he commented, slightly relaxing his arm. How do you like the story?” “Go on,” said Ann Veronica, a little hoarsely, “tell me all of it.
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