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. ‘That is why I have come to England, you understand. I arranged that he should. ’ ‘Oh, this is becoming nonsensical,’ exclaimed Lucilla. In short, every contrivance that ingenuity could devise was resorted to by this horde of reprobates to secure themselves from danger or molestation. ‘Then it must certainly be Eugénie. “And how did you find us here?” “I called at Montague Street a few minutes after you had left.
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