Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it. Too intent on her search, and convinced besides that she was quite alone, she had been an easy prey. 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. And for Suzanne and the vicomte, I am nothing. ‘Because she, naturally enough, does not consider that it is in any way my affair. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors.
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