The shops were lighting up into gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she had lost her way. 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. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. Surely his calculated desire to sit near her meant that his attention had surely been brought from its normal diversions into her realm. But when he looked again, there she was! "I don't understand," he said, finally. ” “I should have his head on a platter!” Sebastian exclaimed dramatically.
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