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. In the periphery of her vision, she saw the door pulled back. She must kill this man, or kill herself. "Thank you," she said, and left the office. I have pleaded with her—no wonder that I have pleaded with her in vain. The moviegoers exited the cinema in the customary daze that resulted from two hours of sensory bombardment. It came with an extreme effect of re-discovery, a remarkable novelty.
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