But never would any so dishonour himself as to hand a fellow rogue over to the authorities. 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. " "Well," said Sister Prudence, "remember, I tried to save you some future heartaches. “Great dears!” said Capes, as the vehicle passed out of sight. The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy.
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