She had not seen him in two and a half centuries. 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 was a little paler than when she had come to London, a little paler and a little thinner. Her naked body was an abomination of caked filth and sagging tubes for breasts. “I WILL be arrested! I WON’T go home!” the little old lady was screaming over and over again.
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