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. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. I have two days in which to earn nearly thirty shillings—that is with no dinners, and get a situation. " There fell upon the three the silence of perfect understanding; and in this silence each saw a vision. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest. How was I to know what would happen? He always said if he couldn’t get you a dowry, you could take the veil. We Spurlocks take our medicine, standing. I never saw a man who wasn't. “Still, since it is better to tell you, Sir John is very much in earnest, but his respectability is something altogether too overpowering. I've been hunting for this particular job for a thousand years!" She smiled a little sadly over this fine enthusiasm; for in her wisdom she had a clear perception where it would eventually end—in the veranda chair.
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This video was uploaded to suzume-news.club on 20-09-2024 15:12:02
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