"Raise your vice, and lave off coughin'," added Terence. 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 fancied that he did,” she corrected him coolly. Miss Ellicot has spoken to you, the great Mr. “What are you doing?” he asked. He will be some time in this comatose state.
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