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 were talking about the suffrage—and I rather scoffed. Grudgingly he admired her. It's of no use. “The doctor has asked me to give them my reasons—for shooting myself. Besides—there is Sir John. He's a nice boy, a good student. A siphon and a whisky bottle stood before him. Such a mystery as you have set up. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington. But though she lied about pretty much everything else, she didn’t lie about that. I know of a couple of times where he has 203 traveled to China or something for music competitions and I believe he won a couple. I did not reckon upon—him.
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