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 may as well come up by this train. Spurling, as if struck by a sudden idea. But Gosse began to drag her towards the door. It was not as bad a wound as she had at first thought, and the blood was only oozing now. What better way to be rid of him? ‘Jacques,’ she uttered urgently. And I get myself dirty.
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