She stared at him and thought the words, “My husband, my husband. 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. Sometimes a whole morning would pass without Spurlock uttering a word beyond the request for a drink of water. It filled his thoughts for the rest of the day, and became an obsession.
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