The only inconvenience I feel from my shattered noddle is an incapacity to drink. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. 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. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really. It lay undisturbed in the remotest corner of the recess.
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