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. ‘Come on. Do you know, I envy you. "Coming!—so is midnight—so is Jonathan Wild," retorted Jack, with a significant look at Thames. If the creator drew a hero anything like himself, she would accept it as a sign that he did care a little. I will not trust you. She produced from the depths of her pride the ugly investigatory note of the modern district visitor. As I hope for mercy, I speak the truth!— let him deny it if he can.
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