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. It had been a trying day. "But, I say, that girl is a queer one. ’ ‘It is you who will get the head blown off,’ threatened the young lady fiercely. . "Good-bye!" For a moment Ruth was tempted to fling herself against the withered bosom; but long since she had learned repression. The well of tears in her eyes was dry. Was not Gerald altogether on her side? He was, even though he played games like an imbecile, a person tout à fait sympathique as she had discovered at the outset. Ramage,” she said, “please don’t talk like this. Things were thrown here and there, to be taken up, or again cast aside, as the whim arose; while the broken-backed chairs and crazy table bore the marks of many a conflict. With a gesture which was without any kind of emotional expression, the manager indicated the silent crumpled figure on the floor and gave the room number. Aren’t I asking—asking plainly now?. Oddly, he was seldom angry with her as Gianfrancesco would have been. He had no wish to drag the footman out of his way, once he had got his questions answered. Instead of which, more than half an hour has elapsed.
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