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 said I’d do anything. He asked her whether she understood what she was saying, and went on to say still more precisely that she should never touch a penny of his money until she came home again—not one penny. There could not, he decided, possibly be two girls so much alike. ’ He grinned. At the eastern gate of the churchyard stood the carriage with the steps lowered. The temperature soared to one hundred degrees, sickeningly hot.
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