The only inconvenience I feel from my shattered noddle is an incapacity to drink. 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. By this time, the door was unlocked, and drawing his sword, Quilt entered the cell. When he found himself thinking about it, it upset him so that he at once resorted to distraction.
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