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. Your pets are gone. "There, he's as safe as Jack Sheppard in the Condemned Hould," laughed the man. "Go to your own room, woman, directly, or I'll make you!" "Make me!" echoed Mrs. “You certainly are. ” He took a seat by her side. ‘But how do you come here?’ ‘Down on a routine patrol, unluckily for you,’ he answered grimly.
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