Her head dangled unnaturally for an instant, unleashed from its moorings, then sank to join her husband’s on the floor. 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. Sometimes he was obviously irritable and uncomfortable and unfortunate in his efforts to seem at ease. You have nothing more to fear from Wild. ’ ‘Who, Joan, who? Of whom do you speak?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham.
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