E. “Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. 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. Only old librarians and Shirley Temples say that. “Garçon,” he said, “will you ask the gentleman at the next table if he will do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with me. “Anna!” she repeated. So Ruth took another step toward her destination, which we in our vanity call destiny. He chuckled.
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