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. He had barely said, \"Anytime,\" before she shut the door rather rudely in his face. "But what, may I ask, arouses the thought?" The doctor was in high good humour. I had been about as foolish and selfish as a girl could be. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. His brows drew a little nearer together. That night, she hunted the alleyways of the old town.
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