And yet, Spurlock was afraid of the doctor; so was Ruth. Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. “Oh, damn!” he said. 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. Then he did give way a bit.
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