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. But Gosse began to drag her towards the door. "I want you for the job I spoke of a short time ago, Nab," he said. “I want a plain word with you about all this. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. She was recalling the circumstances under which she had engaged herself to Manning, and trying to understand a curious development of the quality of this relationship. I am resolved to see her, without delay, and ascertain if it's possible to remove her. “How odd that I should almost spring into your arms just on my doorstep!” she remarked gaily. He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. The immense disillusionment that awaited him! The devastating disillusionment! She had a vague desire to run after him, to state her case to him, to wring some understanding from him of what life was to her. He'll settle it bravely. He laid her on their old bed and kissed her from head to toe.
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