A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. “I am lonely. 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. I’m not mad that he has eyes for you instead of me, not mad at all. You are aware that Martin Chen has a crush on me; I think the whole school is painfully aware, but he’s harmless. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. You ought to have had better advice two years ago.
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