A note of belligerency had crept into his tone. Wow. The only part of his otherwise-interesting countenance, to which one could decidedly object, was the mouth; a feature that, more than any other, is conceived to betray the animal propensities of the possessor. It was a “territory” back then, and many a Frenchman and a Redskin both had been devoured in those caves. 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. . Upon which Mrs. ’ A strangled sob escaped her as his thumb dug cruelly into the soft flesh of her wrist. .
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