She is something different. She was greatly exercised by the problem of confiding in the Widgetts; they were dears, and she talked away two evenings with Constance without broaching the topic; she made some vague intimations in letters to Miss Miniver that Miss Miniver failed to mark. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. "Keep off, you accursed jade!" roared Jonathan, "—off, I say, or—" And he struck her a violent blow with his clenched hand.
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