She began to exercise those lures which were bred in her bone—the bones of all women. 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. I heard rumours of it in Paris, and the place since then has been closed. "If you've a fancy for the girl, we might do it. "No," replied Jack. “Oh, yes, that’s right, we go to school.
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