To Gerald’s eye, the refugees therefore presented a rather forlorn little group, almost huddling together and chattering in low tones in their own tongue. . 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. “The dawn!” said Miss Miniver, with her glasses reflecting the fire like pools of blood-red flame. She gloried in it: he needed her. ‘Go and fetch her home,’ he said; ‘it isn’t what we thought! It’s just a practical joke of hers. She rose to the fire to stoke it. You're luck. Too much, perhaps. He does not look the criminal. He’s dead.
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