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. I'll put them in your room; then we'll have a look-see. "Where are the packets committed to your charge by Sir Rowland Trenchard?" "The packets!" exclaimed Kneebone, in alarm. Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill. ‘Again?’ Another simple parry. "The speedy union of Thames Darrell with Winifred Wood," replied Jack.
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