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. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. But all normal humans smelled wonderful to her, even dirty ones. ‘She wouldn’t tell me.
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