“Then let me be the judge of what is best,” she answered. She evolved a dim image of herself cooped up in a house under the benevolent shadow of Mr. hopelessly, and it made me desperate. My mind is full of ideas and images that I have been cherishing and accumulating—dreams of travelling side by side, of lunching quietly together in some jolly restaurant, of moonlight and music and all that side of life, of seeing you dressed like a queen and shining in some brilliant throng—mine; of your looking at flowers in some old-world garden, our garden—there are splendid places to be got down in Surrey, and a little runabout motor is quite within my means. “Let us escape,” she said. Some automaton within her produced in a quite unfamiliar voice the remark, “They’re playing football. ” Miss Miniver followed with an expression of perplexity, her mouth shaped to futile expositions. Get me an interview with her.
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