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. All its better points were improved, while the less attractive ones (and they were few in comparison) were subdued, or removed. "By my shalvation, boy," he added, fiercely, "if you don't take your hande off my peard, I'll sthrangle you. ’ She saw suspicion darken his gaze. Sir Rowland, who had continued absorbed in thought, with his eyes fixed upon the sloop, as she made her way slowly down the river, disembarked more leisurely. She caught at the idea. ‘You are jealous!’ ‘Yes,’ he agreed simply. "Put about, waterman, for God's sake!" cried Wood, whose humanity got the better of every personal consideration; "some one is overboard. He must win this man's confidence, even at the risk of being called mad. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. He divorced her.
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