And she seemed always to keep one eye on Ann Veronica’s dress. She vanished from the laboratory for a week, a week of oddly interesting days. What you said wanted saying. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. 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.
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