Her moods were many and always striking. 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. . Has he given you the tools?" "He has," replied Bess, producing the handkerchief. To be no longer with Martha was strange. “You don’t want to go?” “No. She put a hand to the lad’s cold cheek and choked on a sob. . She ran to the lamp and extinguished it.
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