She ran through the backyards of Pinecrest subdivision, piano wire and a slim jim tucked into her pantyhose. ’ ‘Ah, that explains your surprise. 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. Still, thereafter she had avoided Morgan's; partly out of fear and partly because of her father's mandate. “Yes, I believe he is.
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