The solemn strokes were immediately answered by a multitude of chimes, sounding across the Thames, amongst which the deep note of Saint Paul's was plainly distinguishable. 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. Then enter Mr. "I think you're all bewitched," she cried. "You're only twenty—not legally of age. You would be alarmed of how sulphurous it is, how sickeningly sweet. It is not the woman who speaks there. If you hang Jack Sheppard, you'll cut off the flower o' the purfession. ’ ‘The tables, they are turned, I think,’ she returned. There is no future for me here. . ” Michelle groaned and stopped eating dessert. But this only incensed the assailing party the more.
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