Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. Rummage, my boy, do. 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. She tore open the envelope and read it. Brendon and Courtlaw who had been watching for her, met her at the door. She pointed hither and yon, smiled and shook her head. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. "Leave him to me," he said.
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