A diversion was created by the violent struggles of the little old lady. Miss Ellicot has spoken to you, the great Mr. . 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. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly,’ he said, still meeting her eyes, unaware that his hold about her hand had tightened a little. A cup of lies. How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her. "Good-b'ye!" And with a cordial shake of the hand he took his departure.
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