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. "This is the explanation of the bloody deed. “Mr. On taxing his recollection, the whole circumstance rushed to mind with painful distinctness. “Compromise and kindness. Look at the poor victim at your feet. Do they, Bess?" "Certainly not," replied the young lady appealed to, "especially about their sons. "You have all the world before you.
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