"What is all this, dear Winny?" inquired Thames, as soon as they were alone. Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years. 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. His attitude was as different from Gianfrancesco’s as night was from day. A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast.
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