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. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. By the side of her plate was a small key. " "Hurt her? It would tear her to pieces; God knows she has had enough. ’ ‘I thought you were dead,’ Melusine confided. Well one night, some of us saw him, or thought we saw him, at a café dining with ‘Alcide,’—as a matter of fact, it seems that it was her sister. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. “It is an annoyance, my friend,” she said, “not a tragedy.
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