" "I shouldn't call her queer. “I wonder!” said Miss Stanley. Take your pick, Mrs. Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the unlit gas-fire. 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 picked up the hand cannon. Who were you looking for tonight? One of the émigrés? There were several in there. She felt she must fly before it and could no longer do so. He made it brief. " "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily. "Allow him that small grace," cried Wood.
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