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. Disappointed puppy-love, and all that. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. “I thought you weren’t getting along so well with your mother these days. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. ‘Gérard!’ ‘Yes, it’s I,’ he said, and grinned.
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