“I’ve tried to make words tell it. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present. Hill sat up on the pavement and mopped the blood from his cheek. . She closed her eyes as if asleep, her hands folded neatly on her abdomen. 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.
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