‘My name’s NOT More, Mr. ‘Major Alderley, ma’am, and General Lord Charvill. 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. Her eyes were wide and bright. You know—if you want freedom. Probably a sick man's whim. He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. ” “Perhaps not,” she answered.
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