“I can’t imagine it,” said Miss Miniver. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. ” “An appetite like yours,” he said resignedly, “is fatal to all sentiment. But though he made Blueskin and Kettleby his chief marks, he missed both.
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