‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. I don’t think of you as a kid. 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. At a little after five, on that day, four horses dashed round the corner of the Old Bailey, and drew up before the door of the Lodge.
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