Wood," said the lady bridling up, "my request may, perhaps, have some weight with you. It was possible that his first impressions had not been correct. He said that his life was boring and stupid without her. Wood, who looks after her comforts, and visits her constantly. 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. And now her mind was so full of the thought that she was in love—in love!—that marvellous state! that I really believe she had some dim idea of talking to him about it. " "It is not Jack's voice," rejoined Mrs. " "Are you a real nurse?" "Yes. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. That Frenchie, that’s who she is.
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