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"The men. Never again to be alone! To fit herself into this man's life as a hand into a glove; to use all her skill to force him into the position of depending upon her utterly; to be the spark to the divine fire! He should have his book, even if it had to be written with her heart's blood. 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. And don't worry about the six thousand, Hoddy. It isn’t as though I haven’t done well. Stanley, at the door. This gloom was impossible. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. ” She looked at him with curious eyes. He walked hastily to the side of the broad pavement and summoned a fiacre.
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