She knew that in her new rôle she was as likely as not to be a rank failure. Blue Ruin will do the job nicely. 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 don't require it," returned Sheppard. She allowed herself to be ejected, therefore, and retired to the parlour after cleansing the blood from her hands and her own slight wound in the kitchen. " "I'm not afraid, mother," said the little girl, smelling at the bouquet.
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