"Humph!" exclaimed Jonathan, doubtfully. 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. Nor, indeed, did she want to refuse. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. He could not tell by the look of her whether she was glad or sorry that presently she would be free. She went to the basement and shed her sodden coat and scarf, tossing them into her favorite modern appliance, the electric dryer. " "Murder him!" cried Trenchard shuddering. I am quite sure that I do not know you. As he pocketed it, her open palm reached out and slapped his cheek. But—it’s one of the things I’ve just been thinking over. We had such a pride in you, such hope in you.
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