“Marriage and mothering,” said Ann Veronica, with her mind crystallizing out again as the lark dropped to the nest in the turf. "You're on," said O'Higgins. “I’m not a good woman. What a fool I was to separate the two in my mind. Even now, during the recurring doubts of the future, the thought of the island was repellent. She assumed with a kind of mesmeric force all the propositions that Ann Veronica wanted her to define. 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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