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. I mentioned sixty, I believe, when I was in Paris, but there are expenses, and just now business is bad. And they pay her. If one wants a thing very much, perhaps one is inclined to think one can’t have it. Your career at the bar had given you a command of language, also a self-control not vouchsafed to us ordinary mortals. Abruptly would come the end. I dare say it will be chattered about for weeks. Mr. They hissed me!” “Beasts!” he muttered. But perhaps if people didn’t like clear, bright, healthy eyes—which is biologically understandable—they couldn’t like precious stones.
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