"'Sdeath! why am I not obeyed?" exclaimed the knight, angrily. 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. ’ The lady’s face came round, a puzzled frown on her brow. “Not at all. You shall have a house out at Balham or Sydenham, and two servants. What was it she had expected? Surely her moods were getting a little out of hand. " "Both are dead," observed the knight, gloomily.
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