The unfortunate carpenter struggled violently, but ineffectually. The policeman raised his voice, slightly agitated. It was as if the Devil himself had raped and defiled her mother. “I know,” she said quietly, “that Paris, where she has been so much admired, is not a good place for her. It happened that at the extremest point of Ann Veronica’s social circle from the Widgetts was the family of the Morningside Park horsedealer, a company of extremely dressy and hilarious young women, with one equestrian brother addicted to fancy waistcoats, cigars, and facial spots. ” “How?” He asked. 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. The tension was palpable.
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