Part 6 When Ann Veronica reached her little bed-sitting-room again, every nerve in her body was quivering with shame and self-disgust. 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 suppose all men,” said Ann Veronica, in a tone of detached criticism, “get some such entanglement. "What weight are these irons?" asked Jonathan, coolly addressing one of the partners. His vicious abusiveness vanished. He motioned the young man to the rear chair, because at that hour the youth appeared to be a quantity close to zero. At times he seemed to be claiming pity from her; at times he was threatening her with her check and exposure; at times he was boasting of his inflexible will, and how, in the end, he always got what he wanted. “But about last night.
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