" Neither man spoke. " "She has paid dearly for it," muttered Blueskin. Other things came. 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. A-L-I-V-A—Aliva—T-R-EN—Trencher that's it.
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