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 liked to do it for Cathy Beck, so that she could relax after waitressing all day at the Big Apple with a homemade meal. Many other wards,—especially on the Master Debtor's side,—have been necessarily omitted in the foregoing hasty enumeration. This is something above all rules. “I am under police surveillance,” she said. She could stow away, go to a place where there were no people to eat and end her life. And many of these deaths could be avoided if it were not for superstition.
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