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. You know—I worship you. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. ‘Now then, missie. Wood will be intercepted. " "Nothing," echoed Wood furiously. The light was poor, so that she saw their gleaming faces dimly and indistinctly. I think not. In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid.
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