In her usual style, she interviewed him for his life and was pleased that he liked nothing more than to talk about himself. 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. “Marriage certificates don’t tell lies, at any rate,” he said. ” “They would make someone into an Oracle? What’s that?” She asked. ” She passed out without reply. “I wish you would not do it. A doubt as to your dinner to-morrow would make you miserable to-night. White leaned forward in her chair with an anxious smile designed to throw oil upon the troubled waters.
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