I wish very much that you had written before leaving Paris. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. " "True," replied the widow, upon whom all the terrible recollections of the day before crowded, "I know it isn't. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. ’ ‘To be sure I do,’ said Gerald swiftly. His French is better than mine, so he knew exactly what he was handling. 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. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. Thanks.
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