Ennison listened, and he forgot where he was. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. 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. "I thought you were asleep. Do you like duck?” “Sure. “It was only yesterday I had your letter, and you never mentioned coming over. ” She stopped. There was no answer.
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