‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. 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. Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. "I love you like a son, and will follow you like a dog. Gerald switched to French. The water was cold but she waded deeper.
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