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. “Oh. Manning,” she said, “for a time—Will you tell no one? Will you keep this—our secret? I’m doubtful—Will you please not even tell my aunt?” “As you will,” he said. “Very sexy. Tom Sheppard was always a close file, and would never tell whom he married. He rested on one elbow. Lucy felt her eyes misting up, turning traitor. " "Her release would be a mercy," pursued the matron.
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