” “The truth!” There was a brief but intense silence. I was worried. Gianfrancesco became agitated. “Thousands! Ugh! And found it a worse slavery. The stench was cheese-like and unbearable and Lucy dry-heaved. 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. .
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