"My child!" he groaned faintly. The looming face was 71 over her own once again, and arms as strong as iron bars held her down. When you send for me I shall come back. 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. The girl in the forward chair raised herself a little, the better to see the gorgeous blue palanquin of the dimly visible bride.
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