“Please let me drive you home. Meanwhile, the excitement of the chase had in some degree subsided. A Hand that strove to reach his shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful. 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. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me.
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