No more scuffling. 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. Why may I not be your friend? Somehow or other I feel that you have been driven into a false position. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. But there is need for the proof that I am me, and that is what I look for. ] "So much the better. He had heard nothing. ‘But I’m hanged if I know why you find it so amusing. Give me that picture, or I'll make you!" "Hear me," said Thames, calmly; "you well know you're no match for me. ‘Here we go again.
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