"One of us has got to die," he panted. Now then," he added more calmly, "I am ready to die. ‘That is better, no?’ ‘Dieu. —There, Mr. Section 3. His head was small and bullet-shaped, and he did not wear a wig, but had his sleek black hair cut off closely round his temples. 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.
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