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. ‘Playing games to tease me, that’s all he can think of doing. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. I guess she used to pick on her for being big and fat. " "Are you friendly toward him?" asked McClintock, passing a fine cigar across the table. "Thank Heaven!" she gasped. “Stop this—this humbugging,” he explained. What happened? Did you turn me?” “Yes, my love. "Well, Mr. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore.
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