He was continually dramatizing the future, anticipating the singular role he had elected to play. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. Melusine—the real Melusine—would never have made such a stupid mistake. There was something about their greeting and the tone of Annabel’s exclamation which puzzled her. They were loath to admit to the public that the case would be closed in a few years for sheer lack of forensic evidence. 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. Maggot tenderly. Nothing could occupy her attention long today, unless it concerned her situation.
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