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. She observed the tides, amazed by how high the water could rise, almost touching the tops of the cliffs. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. My mind is full of ideas and images that I have been cherishing and accumulating—dreams of travelling side by side, of lunching quietly together in some jolly restaurant, of moonlight and music and all that side of life, of seeing you dressed like a queen and shining in some brilliant throng—mine; of your looking at flowers in some old-world garden, our garden—there are splendid places to be got down in Surrey, and a little runabout motor is quite within my means. "But you've given me what I don't possess. She feasted reluctantly, partly out of wonder at the new function of her often elongated canines. Shoving between them, she confronted the captain herself.
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