‘Indeed?’ Gerald grinned. 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. “Should I leave? Sounds like she is running out of food. It has been a real honeymoon trip, Annabel, for I feel that it has given me a wife. At this time of day the priest would be at his apartments in Brewer Street, a short walk away from Golden Square which the building overlooked. ‘Shocked you, have I? We weren’t mealy-mouthed in my day, my boy. ‘Jacques?’ ‘No. It had been discussed in silence.
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