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There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. ’ ‘Gérard,’ she said, giving the French version with a soft “g” and not quite managing the “l”. "Oho!" he said. She had been to San Francisco, and what I learned about the world was from her. It was his turn to express astonishment. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. . 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. ” “I am really curious,” she persisted. He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy.
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