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. “Will you be moral and your species, or immoral and yourself? We’ve decided to be immoral. “You shall,” she said. With the same inducements we should all do the same thing. "The Dawn Pearl," he said. Her heart failed her and her resolution became water.
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