“Queer letters he writes,” she said. Capes agreed with the utmost cordiality. Her sense followed the shoulders under his coat, down to where his flexible, sensitive-looking hand rested lightly upon the table. 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. Grace-church Street was entirely deserted, except by a few stragglers, whose curiosity got the better of their fears; or who, like the carpenter, were compelled to proceed along it. Sebastian was a marvelous investigator, a fiery intellect, and a great seducer of both men and women. The Widgetts talked with a remarkable absence of external coverings; the Palsworthys found all the meanings of life on its surfaces.
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