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. Tears sprang to her eyes. “My God!” he said at last, with tremendous feeling, and then again, “My God!” Now that this thing was said her mind was clear and calm. In the little apartment, under the gas chandelier, his inches and his stoop were certainly very effective. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. Curiosity to see what a sing-song girl was like took possession of Ruth's thoughts.
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