Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek. . She had come to the end of her resources. She ran away after she had divined that Gianfrancesco had remarried. 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 only thing that was louder to her was the beating of his heart. For when this Joan said it, I had a memory. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. She traveled through back yards and quiet side streets on her way home, careful to avoid the main thoroughfares, fraught as they were with people in cars who would recognize her person or notice her dress. In a very definite sense we are in the wrong —hopelessly in the wrong.
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