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. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. McClintock did not exaggerate his ability to read faces. ‘More, I think,’ put in Madame, soulfully regarding the major, ‘because I have English, a little. His blood would be sweet with it. "I have not many days,—perhaps, not many hours to live. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. He won’t be in uniform. Armed, however, with the implement he had so fortunately obtained, he did not despair of success.
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