The cart, meantime, had approached the fatal tree. 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. Her hair was washed for her also. “It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. There were too many kills, too many unsolved files in too many cabinets. She was ashamed of herself for the simple gladness she felt wash over her as the infant’s screams ended. At length, however, the prisoner was got out, when such was the rush of the multitude that several persons were trampled down, and received severe injuries. " A prophecy which was to be fulfilled in a singular way.
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