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. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. His hair flew out from the sides of his head like black bats from a belfry, it was unruly and long. Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill. ‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration. go. ” “It certainly was,” she admitted.
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