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. She was surprised to find how stored her mind was with impressions and memories of him, how vividly she remembered his gestures and little things that he had said. Lucy looked down, noticing that Michelle had left her shoes in the entryway. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. Occasionally he would lean back and stare at the window which gave upon the sea. He was profoundly stirred. “What has he to do with it?” “He was your sister’s master—her friend. I couldn’t rest or eat or sleep. Lucy heard a stir, but if Dawn Plote were to arise and come into the room, it could only mean two murders tonight. In twenty minutes we meet in the hall, remember. He seemed to charge her with the ruin of their situation. Also he had said—laughing in that way with his eyes which made a flutter in her chest— that Prudence will find an Englishman to marry her. That's a queer yarn.
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