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. She looked paler than ever; but her countenance, though bewildered, did not exhibit the alarm which might naturally have been anticipated from the strange and perplexing scene presented to her view. It was 1582. ’ ‘Pah!’ rejoined Melusine, apparently unconscious of echoing him. ” “It isn’t necessary,” they both declared breathlessly. “Every one. It's infernally provoking. “Damned Rascal!” he said.
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