“Mine is a primitive and unstudied manner. I’m sorry. ” He moved himself from the recliner to the couch and patted a cushion. "Well, Lady Trafford," he said, fixing a severe look upon her. 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 is not every sort of creature needs—these males. . After a long fifteen seconds, she pulled her head back into the seat, looking at his face from the close angle, his nose huge and out of perspective, his eyes like round blue pearls. Perhaps you’ve heard—?’ Well, you know, he had. The bridge was open. Her lips parted, but no words came.
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