Mr. " "I'll not forget it. "The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted. . The world had grown dark and wide, and she was very small. Until that moment, Jarvis had imagined the child to be safe in the wet-nurse’s cottage. But probably not the truth. 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. It came into her head with real emotional force that this must be some particularly fantastic sort of dream. Now there is none.
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