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. Only first you must find the lantern and light it again and leave it here, near the door, for me to find. Wood!—no," replied the turnkey. But the love of life prevailed over his fears. ‘If you love me, you will say it, or else I will blow off your head.
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