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 left for good after he fell asleep. "I'll cut down him who opposes me. "Oh! that was all, was it?" said the turnkey, quietly reseating himself. The young man was mollified by her sympathy, and flattered by the obvious attempts of several of the other guests to draw him into conversation. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. But let that verse tell my secret.
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