They're apt to be surly to strangers, but it soon wears off. 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. The idea of leaving for Mexico had become unbearable, as he was so easy to like and perhaps even easier to love. Acting upon this humane determination, he impelled himself slowly backwards,—for he did not dare to face the blast,—and with incredible labour and fatigue reached the crevice. This getting up at dawn—real dawn—and working until seven was a distinct novelty. ‘That is imbecile.
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