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. This lady is my wife, and I have a right to be here. My will is executed, and placed in safe custody. Its very calmness was frightful. Lost ground must be regained. Amid a litter of nails without heads, screws without worms, and locks without wards, lay a glue-pot and an oilstone, two articles which their owner was wont to term "his right hand and his left. She shuddered. Everything had so far come to pass as the withered old Kanaka woman had foretold. Usually his charges bored him with their interrogative chatter, for he knew that his information more often than not went into one ear and out of the other.
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