‘Parbleu,’ she uttered indignantly. 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 kissed him on the bridge of his nose. “I want to show you something. He was her only brother, and she his favourite sister. At the door to the kitchen, he called out, ‘Pottiswick!’ The old man came out, shoving his chin in the air and glaring.
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