” He handed her the phone reluctantly, barely masking his mild disgust. “It is no good playing a game. He was a stranger. 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. She felt draggled and insulted beyond redemption. He made it more and more evident to her that her proper course was not to earn a salary but to accumulate equipment. He had come to Anna’s rooms from a dinner party, and he was in evening dress. We shall have him on his return. Now, Sir, will you please to follow me?" Mr. He was always doing his best to call her attention to the fact that he was a man of spirit and quality and experience, and she a young and beautiful woman, and that all sorts of constructions upon their relationship were possible, trusting her to go on from that to the idea that all sorts of relationships were possible.
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