“Is there any urgency?” The doctor bent over his patient, who seemed to have fallen asleep. 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. I have suffered all this. Shari would know what to do, but Shari was out with her friend Lisa. He eyed the young couple with the tragic history behind them, and could only suppose that familiarity had dulled their senses. Every one looked at Anna.
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