“Is everything okay?” His mother touched his 251 shoulder gently, standing up. He measured out the portion of another peg, the bottle wavering in his hand. 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 found pieces of it on the blacktop near the green dumpster, amazingly small pieces considering the fabric’s original heft. John sat with his parents who arrived bubbling with excitement, bragging to everyone about Lucy’s first performance for them exclusively. At a little after five, on that day, four horses dashed round the corner of the Old Bailey, and drew up before the door of the Lodge. I can’t even make myself care. You understand me, I’m sure.
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