Tell me why you ran away from the convent. “That is as you will,” she said. “We are both of us trenching upon forbidden ground,” she said. You see I am rather obstinate. “My dear Vee!” Her voice became very low. 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. She had already realized that this instructress was hopelessly wrong and foggy—it is the test of the good comparative anatomist—upon the skull. “I am bored,” she said abruptly. People are brought up to be so shy about money. I’d take it— forgive me if I seem a little urgent—as a sort of proof of friendliness.
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