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“It’s—it’s a difficult question. 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. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. She knew that her voice was superior to Annabel’s, and she had no further qualms. He stood transfixed. “Good luck! Good luck!” She waved from the window until the bend hid him. Well, if she survives the accident—as the blood, who styles himself Sir Cecil, fancies she may do—this ring will make my fortune by leading to the discovery of the chief parties concerned in this strange affair.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 10-09-2024 03:13:25
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