Of course, it really signified nothing in this careless part of the world that she was travelling alone. 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 am very, very sorry, but you must listen to me. His hat was placed upon one pole, his wig on another. Jeremiah Jackson and Mr. Nice, of course. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her. That is why I have dyed my hair, that is why I have abandoned my rôle of ingenuèe and altered my whole style of dress. Supper was spaghetti and Italian sausage that night. Petite build, like herself. But when she saw the car, her body filled with dread, for it gave her a bad feeling.
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