She liked his face; it had on it the suggestion of gentleness, of fineness. “Can you spare me forty pounds?” she said. 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’ve been wondering where she got her dogged will, and that hot-headed adventurous spirit, for it wasn’t from either Mary or Nicholas, that’s sure. Even her debt to him was a triviality now. Thieves and pickpockets are his constant companions. I spent agonizing weeks wandering Mantua in search of you, finally arriving at the idea of asking someone who you were. And now," she added, glancing contemptuously at the woollen-draper, "I'll go to Jack Sheppard. ‘Did I say so? When last heard from you were claiming some good English name.
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