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. He might call her wife, but she refused to give him his wedding night. . And she was as shrewd as they come. He eyed the young couple with the tragic history behind them, and could only suppose that familiarity had dulled their senses. She felt sharp animal teeth pierce her above her shoulder. She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. ’ She sighed relief to see a faint grin as he ventured to raise his head. “Can we watch television?” She asked. ’ ‘Perhaps you don’t, Hilary,’ Gerald said mildly, smiling at the young lady and indicating one of the wide window seats. That'll tune me up. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own.
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