" "And that's true," rejoined Mrs. ” “Your knowledge of our ways,” he murmured “is profound. My birthday was on May first. 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. Well, this was the side of the world where things like that happened. She would buy a Greyhound ticket to New Orleans, make a kill or two, then travel into Texas and seduce some wandering man into taking her to Mexico, feast upon him once they got there. She dared not say the word aloud, not even to herself. The Denunciation.
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