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. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. ‘I know her, ma’am, but I know next to nothing of her story. “YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. She was quite a beauty, all in white, and I can still see how much you resemble her. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. "I don't know. But for him——” Something in her sister’s tone startled Anna.
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