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. "These are my terms, Sir Rowland," he added, taking a sheet of paper from his pocket, and pushing it towards the knight. If I’m late again I’ll have to serve another detention!” She excused herself, hoping it was not too obvious she was running away. There was a long silence between them. "Stop a minute," cried Jack, detaining his mistresses.
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