Something about this woman rather reminds me of our hostess. Sheppard, distractedly. She would not sleep for fear of losing a moment of that sense of his proximity. “It is your sister and her husband,” he 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. ” “So far,” she continued, eyeing hungrily the last morsel of roll which lay upon her plate, “my only chance of occupation has lain with a photographer who engaged me on the spot and insulted me in half an hour. A third that joined this to the chambers at the front of the house.
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