He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. What Miss Miniver would have called the Higher Truth supervenes. His mother smiled in return, an act that brightened her thin face. More importantly, she had her wits. .
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