She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. 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. All through the night an entirely impossible and monumental Capes confronted her, and she argued with him about men and women. “By Jove!” he exclaimed. ” “Not exactly,” he answered nervously. The atmosphere was 46 strained and deathly quiet at the dining room table. " "But don't ever swim off the main beach without someone with you. “Eight, Cavendish Square. “I say!” he cried. "What's the matter?" he cried. Re-issued with new cover October 2013.
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