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. O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters. A dozen words, and he saw Enschede as clearly as though he stood hard by in the flesh. Earles thinks I am a little mad, and between ourselves I am not sure about it myself. She wanted to go to Cornell University to study Anthropology, that was her 183 dream. “You were born for great things,” he said huskily. His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. All this was the work of a minute. He was so seldom wrong. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects.
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