‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips. She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt. And two other ladies. 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. Sheppard, sinking backwards upon the pallet. Now I do. “If only Sir John were not Sir John I would ask you to come and have some supper. I cannot let you go. .
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