I really cannot have anything to do with Mr. 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. “We will try and make you happy, my dear, so that you may learn that lovemaking is perhaps a little more than your idea of a woman’s duty. ‘Scream and you are dead,’ he snapped, and released her mouth so that he might open the door. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. It is a plain case of alcoholic stupor.
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