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. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney. “You have not seen your sister lately,” he remarked. She looked at him as he thrust deeply, his face contorted with pleasure as he watched her riding him. . She raised this with the air of a conspirator unmasking, and displayed a tear-flushed face. Wood, softening her asperity. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. What had actually beaten him was not to have known if someone had picked up his trail.
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