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. “You’re still,” he said, “in the educational years. The wedding day came shortly after she turned fourteen. Pramlay lived for amenities and the mellowed surfaces of things. Melusine seized her chance. “The Widgetts,” she said. But you——” Something seemed to catch his breath. It is she that I must see. ‘If he needed sanctuary, it raises grave doubts about his activities. As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension.
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