” Ten thousand! Put that way it seemed so different. "She is here," cried Jack, darting forward. I am shockingly poor. " "Impossible, Sir," replied Ireton, greatly alarmed. 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. Anna made things for her.
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