“Fancy stabbing a man for jealousy!” she thought. Probably some woman on the loose; they were as thick as flies over here—dizzy blondes. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. 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.
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