She came to spend hours with the bastard children that the women brought, dressing and feeding the tiny ones, inventing games for the older ones. He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery. Any one less courageous than himself would have abandoned the attempt from a conviction of its utter hopelessness; but, though it might for a moment damp his ardour, it could not deter him. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. Her husband was prouder of her every day. “It’s THE Society!” said Miss Miniver. Think if your own mother was alive!” He paused, deeply moved.
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