“The one who used to live at Lyndmore. Indeed it was apparent, from the likeness between them, that they were nearly related. This vessel is now in the river, off Wapping. 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. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Gerald did not know who she was, but he knew who she was not. From suburbs, from country towns—everywhere. The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. Manning. The Well Hole. Her aunt leaped unhappily to the thought of penitence. She had never before heard the noise of firecrackers, and in the beginning the sputtering racket caused her to wince.
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