F. 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. The beachcomber, the lowest in the human scale; and some day he would enter into this estate. She felt she must fly before it and could no longer do so. It was thought, however, if the skipper could have been found, that the result of the case would have been materially different.
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