The turning of the key startled her, but she did not see how she could make an objection. “But, dear, think! He is your father. He suspected a trap. 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. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. You’re all dependents—all of you. “I say, Vee. “Look at our affair,” he went on, looking up at her. I suppose an intelligent person OUGHT to be interested in political affairs.
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