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. . When I drink blood, I. Wood's anxiety to please her distinguished guests speedily displayed itself in a very plentiful, if not very dainty repast. Call her Miss Pellissier, eh? I tell you she’s my wife, and I’ve got the certificate in my pocket. You are alone in the world, you have no one save yourself to consider. ’ Charvill eyed the girl with resentment.
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