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. Yes, it was Manningtree really secured your father. "Hold!" interposed Thames, "he can do no more mischief. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. " "Who are they?" inquired Sheppard.
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