Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. I am. During the wet monsoon the west beach was always littered. He might call her wife, but she refused to give him his wedding night. Cursing under his breath, Gerald moved swiftly across and dragged her away. 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. Marriage was a taboo subject between them.
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