Her heart in her mouth, she heard his foot scrape on the floorboard and knew from his expression that Gosse had heard it too. I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales. 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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