“You’re Glorious!” said Miss Miniver in tones of rapture, holding a hand in each of hers and peering up into Ann Veronica’s face. The tension was palpable. “You will go and see her,” he begged. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. As you brew so must you drink. He drew a little breath and stepped back. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed.
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