“Nothing. He was always doing his best to call her attention to the fact that he was a man of spirit and quality and experience, and she a young and beautiful woman, and that all sorts of constructions upon their relationship were possible, trusting her to go on from that to the idea that all sorts of relationships were possible. “How old are you?\" He looked at her engagingly. He had not to wait long. They did not have to wait long. "Yes. I want to go to that because it’s a new experience, because I think it will be interesting and give me a view of things. But men are so careless, there's no trusting anything to them! However, I must try to brazen it out. So now I will say nothing more to you, and you will please to say nothing more to me, for I do not reply. 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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