" "But, Mr. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. It does not work, I still suffer madness. Gracious, there’s the gong. That is what they call these aristocratic refugees, the English. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look. ” Anna shrugged her shoulders lightly. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end.
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