Look at me, and answer me one question. “I thought they made knights of actors?” “They may of Hal some day,” said Gwen. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. 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. His breath grew shallower as he approached the room, conscious of the loudness of his hallway-reverberated footfalls.
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