’ ‘You mean Valade? Certainly not. The lad had just barely jangled it, when hurrying footsteps could be heard inside. 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. “Miss Pellissier, isn’t it?” he said. She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters. “Come upstairs,” she said, “and I will show you your room.
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