” “It was a mistake,” she faltered. “Excellent!” he exclaimed. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them. I have had my day; and there were women in it. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. I wish they would just get it over with. 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.
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