Her eyes were perhaps a little brighter than usual, the firelight played about her hair, there seemed to him to be a sudden softening of the straight firm mouth. He was also, had she known it, more than a little insincere. “I suppose, Vee, you don’t see much of those Widgetts now?” “I go in and talk to Constance sometimes. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. She remembered him as a dull figure, a big man with a belly that was already showing fat under his fine scarlet clothes. Anyhow he confessed that he was a fraud. What Miss Miniver would have called the Higher Truth supervenes. . But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that.
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