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. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. ‘What do you do here?’ demanded the young lady, moving to meet him. Who is the beautiful intruder? And why does she disguise herself as a nun? Why is she involved in an enterprise both foolhardy and dangerous? The girl’s accent suggests an émigré but Mademoiselle insists she is English. “You were married to him!” “It could not be legal,” Annabel moaned. Far too old to ask you on your first date. It was hard to associate her with the stories which he and all Paris had heard of “Alcide. ” “And you have sent him about his business. Any natural fineness would be numbed by drink.
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