Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. You told me he was going back to Newgate after supper, so I mayn't have another opportunity. 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 infused menace into her voice. He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a blanched cheek, to Rowland. “But I wish,” she said, “I had some idea what I was really up to. I throw up work—everything! I just teach in one school, one good school, three days a week. Anyhow, ten minutes after I get to work I'll be rumpling it.
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