Too intent on her search, and convinced besides that she was quite alone, she had been an easy prey. 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. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. She forbade him to escape to his workshop in the basement during those times, denying him his one and only hobby. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. I've been thinking about it ever since morning.
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