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’ ‘How do you do?’ Gerald said pleasantly, stepping from the pillared portico and coming down the shallow stairway. Oh, cuss it!” “Eh?” “He said I would. It was a refusal of expediency, he said, and not an absolute refusal. 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. Submission to the inevitable carried her through the circumstances of her appearance before the magistrate. In the grate were some charred fragments of a marriage certificate. It feels like it. Indeed, he told me nothing at all.

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