” “Then I am sure,” Sir John declared, “that I shall not ask you. Critically, she stared at her own features. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. That was the true miracle of the gift; without actual experience, to imagine love and hate and greed and how they would react upon each other; and then, when these passions had served their temporary purpose, to cast them aside for new imaginings. ‘Desist, you little devil,’ he growled in her ear. I daresay that is one of the names of the nuns in your convent. 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.
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