In mid-bite, she heard a car door slam that was recognizable. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. She glanced into his face. “Who from?” She met his eye for a second and her heart failed her. 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. ‘But—’ ‘Nothing at all for you to worry your head over,’ said the captain, moving to try and usher her forth. I have always understood that men avoid like the plague a woman with a sense of humour. ” “Oh no he doesn’t.
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