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. "My name is Darrell," said the fugitive hastily. ‘After all the threats you’ve made, that is hardly fair. It was bleeding again. ’ He slid slowly down and collapsed to the stone floor, fainting dead away. Indeed, a note of weeping broke her voice for a moment as she burst out, “You know as well as I do that money was a loan!” “Loan!” “You yourself called it a loan!” “Euphuism. Look at this ring;—it's a diamond, and worth a mint o' money. There is a new life, different from the old life of dependence, possible.
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