“And now let us leave the men alone and talk about ourselves. 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. He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the most miserable state imaginable. ‘That’s right, you bone idle do-nothings. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. Everything was going to hell. Kneebone assures me he didn't receive them, I can't do otherwise than believe you. Perhaps I may borrow yours one day?’ ‘Lucilla, you wretch,’ burst from the captain. Her aunt went out of the room with dignity and a rustle, and up-stairs to the fastness of her own room. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own.
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