The summer arrived, speeding the Plague and with it the famine in the streets. 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. But when all was over, a sorrowful calm succeeded, and, if not free from grief, she was tranquil. Her head ached with a hollow pain. I just suppose it isn’t worth the trouble. She could not explain in words why they disappointed her or that she was disappointed. I really am enjoying it.
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