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. Will you?” She thought, and it seemed to him she had never looked so self-disciplined and deliberate and beautiful. “All right?” he asked. She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips. The Plague raced through the city and the Palazzo, consuming it like fire. So frightful, indeed, were the ravages of this malady, to which debtors and felons were alike exposed, that its miserable victims were frequently carried out by cart-loads, and thrown into a pit in the burial-ground of Christ-church, without ceremony. You were pointed out to me at—a few nights ago. Wood; but they never come now. ‘I know you, Gerald. Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service.
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