” She laughed gaily—and she had a way when she laughed of throwing back her head and showing her beautiful white teeth, so that mirth from her was a thing very much to be desired. Ten thousand islands, and each one good for a night's rest. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. “Want one?” Michelle deadpanned. 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 had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. He had assumed that her leaving home was the point at issue, that everything turned on that, and that the sole alternative was obedience, and she had fallen in with that assumption until rebellion seemed a sacred principle.
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