But, alas! Ah Cum shrugged philosophically. She lit the cigarette with a tiny Kelly green drugstore lighter. Who is the other?” “What other?” Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. Gerald’s temper flared. “My wife. 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. “How ridiculous! Fancy you with all that money! For heaven’s sake, though, do not go about playing the Don Quixote like this. Something in her tone made him look up.
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