I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. Nor Jacques. Blank it was, except for a gate near the bridgehead. \"So, guess who just asked me to the Junior Prom?\" Lucy's eyes widened. 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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