” She said dryly. Laugh on the wrong side of your mouth, now. She looked upon it with pity as she drank his diabetic blood and saw that several of his fingers were missing. 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.
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