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. Thames did not try to cheer her. “I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her. Coat, on the present occasion, he had none, it being more convenient, as well as agreeable to him, to pursue his avocations in his shirtsleeves; but, when fully equipped, he wore a large-cuffed, long-skirted garment, which had once been the property of his master. "You call in vain," rejoined Thames. If the creator drew a hero anything like himself, she would accept it as a sign that he did care a little. ‘You could not tell it,’ said Melusine, ‘unless you were as close as we. Perhaps Sir John is going to take the other one under his wing. So far as I'm concerned, nothing could please me more.
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