CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH THOUGHTS IN PRISON Part 1 The first night in prison she found it impossible to sleep. 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. "Then it is not too late to save him. ” “There’s green-fly,” admitted Ann Veronica. Her new husband was pleased to watch the astonished look on her face as tray after tray appeared on the grand table, each better than the next. "If I could only make you realize what you have done," he said, lamely.
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