Take your pick, Mrs. “It’s a way of avoiding explanations. 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. The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns. “If only Sir John were not Sir John I would ask you to come and have some supper. There was a girlfriend who was mentally ill. In exchange, I simply asked to serve as the Family Physician. She is a woman chosen in youth for her beauty and her intelligence. Michelle was on her like a fly, asking her questions about her past foster homes she did her best to avoid, pretending to be swamped every night with sudden reams of homework and unable to be reached by phone. John eased off.
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