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 ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. One nail drives out another, it's true; but the worst nail you can employ is a coffin-nail. ” “Thanks for the nice evening, John. " "What for?" demanded the turnkey.
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