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. "It's better," observed Sheppard, meaningly. And I’m off to America, and if my steamer goes to the bottom of the Atlantic I’ll thank the Lord for it. Suspending his labour on Jack's appearance, the man demanded his business.
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