They lived in a castle, the same place she had been turned in. 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 night was clear and moonlit, dazzling with even light blue shadows that shone into manicured lawns and pristine gardens. 48 <6> THE FRIDAY NIGHT SHOW The air was chill and the sky overcast and misting. The real Ruth was as completely hidden as though she stood behind the walls of Agra Fort. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth.
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