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All sorts of battered tramps, junks and riff-raff of the seas trailed in and out. ‘But you will not be in a convent. " A moment afterwards, they quitted the house. The prisoner breathed with difficulty. 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 found she was trembling at his nearness and full of a thrilling dread that he might touch her.
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