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. "No, no, let him alone," interposed Wood. The huge, newly remodeled brick house was crammed full of people reeking of beer, vodka, and tequila. I didn’t go out of my way or anything. The place was crowded, and the people about her were almost equally made up of very goodlooking and enthusiastic young people and a great variety of Goopes-like types. “Here goes for the new life!” “Here goes for the new life,” he echoed and stood up.
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