Now the sense of beauty was spreading to a multitude of hitherto unsuspected aspects of the world about her. "Blueskin's a friend in need," he said. 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. ‘Why, that’s one of the names with which she tried to fob me off.
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