They turned the corner that joined Michelle's street to her own. ” Her words were slurred with sleep. He whispered in her ear. A nod was exchanged. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write. 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. A silver necklace enhanced the dusky beauty of her neck. “Look here,” he said, “I brought you here to make love to you.
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