And they’ll shut the gates presently. 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. "Tell him that I—his adopted son, Thames Darrell— am detained here by Jonathan Wild. You need fear no interruption from him, or any of his myrmidons. ’ She paused, holding her nurse’s eyes. He was going to tell me something— and he shut up.
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