Anna sat with the face of a Sphinx— waiting. 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. Curiosity held her by one hand, urging her to recklessness, and caution held her by the other. . “There is this absurd craving for Mr. Amongst them was a revolver.
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