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. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. "It is plain he has been destroyed by his perfidious accomplice," rejoined Thames. "You didn't spend it?" "I never intended to spend it—any more than I really intended to steal it.
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