To lose was death, quickly and mercilessly delivered. 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. But not once in these ten years had they borne blossom or fruit. Mr. “Will you come this way,” she said, “into the drawing-room? There is no one there just now. The young fellow was almost as odd in his way as the girl was in hers. I don’t see how they can be.
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