It’s gone. 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 didn't mean it. "But if it is thy will to take me from him," she continued, as soon as her emotion permitted her,—"if he must be left an orphan amid strangers, implant, I beseech thee, a mother's feelings in some other bosom, and raise up a friend, who shall be to him what I would have been. Ennison slightly——” There was a dead silence in the little room. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed. But if not himself, there would be another soon enough. “Oh good. ‘Suppose you don’t know what sort of proof she was after?’ he asked. As she did so the preparation-room door opened behind her. Having no more patience, I drew you aside to give you a compliment on your radiant beauty.
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