1. “What else can happen?” asked Miss Miniver, with a little weak gesture at the
glow. 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. “I’ve
tried to make words tell it. A woman touched him lightly on the arm, and
smiled into his face. Outside the door stood one
of the soldiers. He
heard Rollo's stump beat a gentle tattoo on the floor. " Still the voice was
without emotion; calm, colourless. He shook his head all the time. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his
clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately
kindly. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of
methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay.
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