” She paused. 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. While involved in this crowd, near Temple Bar, —where the thoroughfare was most dangerous from the masses of ruin that impeded it,—an individual, whose swarthy features recalled to the carpenter one of his tormentors of the previous night, collared him, and, with bitter imprecations accused him of stealing his child. “Dyed!” “And your figure?” “One’s corsetière arranges that. Or perhaps my father once. We came on here at once. It was a mass of knick-knacks. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. It was the moment for smiles.
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