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. To die intestate was unforgiveably irresponsible. So the young fool had not told her! McClintock had suspected as much. —"Oh! about that boy, Thames Darrell. ‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand.
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