Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. 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. You can do it, if you will. This was enough for the poor widow. “Had he better have a nurse? I will be responsible for anything of that sort. "I wish to overtake Lady Trafford. " As he said this, a slight noise was heard without. Born on a South Sea island, she said.
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