She met his eye for a moment in curious surprise. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. 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. As soon as he finished a sheet, he tossed it aside and began another. Melusine ripped at the buttons of the garment, dragging it open and away, and gasped at the massive red stain on his shirt. “Bad hemorrhage,” he said. Predictably, Charvill turned on him. You don’t know about Mary because you live in Kent.
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