Sheppard, passing her hand across her brow; "but my memory is gone—quite gone. Shamefaced curiosities began to come back into her mind, thinly disguised as literature and art. Her hair is like, white blonde, but trust me, it’s not her natural color. Sheppard snatched back her hand from his grasp, and exerted all her force to repel his advances. By that time it seemed to them they had lived together twenty years. “Nothing. 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. His literary instincts were reviving.
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