\" She tried not to stare at Shari who had resumed 11 sipping the drugged cocoa. I tore the marriage certificate from his pocket and burnt it. And now for the fawney— the ring I mean. 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 what was singular she did not recount to the doctor that morning's adventure. "And now, I've one further request," faltered Jack; "though I scarcely know how to make it. I could not dream of loving you. Abruptly he gripped her wrist. ‘Your mystery lady, I mean. ‘It is nothing at all of the kind.
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