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 hair had become so matted that Sebastian had sheared it off, which made her the very mirage of a nubile young boy. But if she smiled at all it was with her eyes. Diedermeyer, sweetheart? He just went in. "He says he don't understand flash," replied the lady in gentleman's attire. "Can't you see? I can't hurt her, if … if she cares! I can't tell her I'm a madman as well as a thief!… What a fool! What a fool!" A thief. ‘Tee-ree-sa. Lucy stepped inside. It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour. "I am coming to the point, Joan.
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