For so far she had kept it uncashed. The wall of St. 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. “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. She came in now with an air of reserved solicitude. She awoke and found herself home amid a pile of three bodies, one of which she recognized as a former denizen of the household. ‘It had better not be, by God,’ had barked Captain Hilary Roding. E. But ere the words could find utterance, her maternal tenderness overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she extended her arms over her child.
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