She raided their settlements in shifts, staggering her kills from tribe to tribe, undiscriminating of their petty politics. “So, Rhea must have known you for what you are. She forced herself not to think of John. M. 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.
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