\"What did you think of Poltergeist, John?\" She tried to engage him in conversation as Mark's music blared from the van's stereo system. 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 really owe him something of an apology. I thought perhaps you were staying with them, as you did not seem particularly anxious to recognize your old friends. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. You've saved my life. . Nevertheless there came a residuum of expostulations.
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