Paul’s, were rich and wonderful with the soft sunshine of London, the softest, the finest grained, the most penetrating and least emphatic sunshine in the world. She looked at Lucy guiltily, wondering if she would be betrayed. It was the gallows. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. 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 man might be without relatives, but certainly he would not be without friends, that is to say, without letters. You will survive, mark my words.
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