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Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. Melusine’s heart ached for him, but she had to force him on. 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. " "Dear me!" sympathised Mrs. " "I should like a little of that plum-tart," said Mrs.
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