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. Suddenly the Wastrel took hold of the edge and flung the table aside. “The very question shows your ignorance,” he declared. \"What's that?\" Lucy asked. I dared not sing, I dared not laugh, except when you went away. But with Gosse and the woman in prison here, there is always the chance that the whole affair may be raked up all over again. .
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