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. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. It was a purse. He understood now that it was a part of her inheritance. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room. “I wonder,” he said, “if women do know things by instinct? I have my doubts about feminine instinct. " "The best evidence would be afforded by an accomplice of the assassin," rejoined Thames, who was greatly offended by the insinuation as to his parentage.
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