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‘That is my mother. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. “Don’t we all rather humbug about the coarseness? All we women, I mean,” said she. He was a fool. ’ She turned her head, eyes blazing. Lost ground must be regained. 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.
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