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. During this dreadful pause the wretched man felt for his sword. “And you brought her a man, I presume. Recollect, he's chained to the ground by a great horse-padlock, and is never unloosed except when he comes to that hatch. "It is an ordinary wedding," he added; "some shopkeeper's daughter. He moved to one side, bowing and gesturing to the door. ‘En tout cas, it is not up at all, but down. CHAPTER I.
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