With an open hand, he slapped her face. 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. Though encumbered by his irons, his step was firm, and his demeanour dignified. Ireton rushed forward to open the wicket for him. "I do," replied Sheppard. ‘I told you I could handle her.
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