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. “Have you turned him yet?” Michelle whispered hotly, trying not to raise the volume of her voice. She put a stool for him at a little distance from her own, and after he had seen the day’s work he hesitated, and then plunged into a resumption of their discussion about beauty. “You little wretch!” she exclaimed weakly. ” He looked at her anxiously, and she met his glance with a dazzling smile of gratitude. "Hell's curses!" muttered Jonathan between his teeth; "that fool will ruin all.
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