Mr. 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 uttered one word over and over, monotonously: "Fool! … Fool!" But invariably the touch of Ruth's hand quieted him, and his head would cease to roll from side to side. Everything I could do! Your father sat up all night. She will take me in until I can make some plans. ‘Get the swords!’ ‘I’ll see to him. I keep it for my own drinking," he added in a lower tone. Now, however, as Gerald watched them, their heads were together and they were murmuring in French.
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