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. Fly! they shall knock me on the head—curse 'em!—before they shall touch you. I shall now be able to test my skill. “But this is a surprise!” said Ramage. Good-looking girl. I can't run in these heavy fetters. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. " "To-morrow will be too late," said Sheppard, moodily.
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