The settlement was on the middle west coast. 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 thought—the papers said——” “You thought that I was dead,” he interrupted. The watermen, who manned the larger wherry, immediately shipped their oars, grappled with the drifting skiff, and held it fast. Then a handkerchief was thrown over the cage, to prevent the bird from singing; it was her favourite canary. ’ Lucy was silent for a space, once again wearing that inscrutable expression. He had “put his foot down,” and said she must not go. She held out the foil.
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