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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. "Those chops, fried potatoes, and buttered toast. I ought to have seen—” “It doesn’t matter a rap—if you’re not disposed to resent the—the way I behaved. She sat herself upon the bed. “It is hard to express one’s self, but I do want to be honest with you. "I guessed as much. People were not slaves to their gods as they are now, oppressed and unhappy, chained to their mortality and suffering so that they may one day enter an imaginary Heaven. I don’t know. They did not have to wait long.
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