What lends a tragic mockery to all these tender traps of hers was that she was within lawful bounds. His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. I think we will soon, though. Then he sat down and filled his pipe slowly and thoughtfully. That’s the fact about them. 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. Ruth came to him directly.
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