Miss Miniver learned of her flight and got her address from the Widgetts. “They’re very good this year,” said Ann Veronica, avoiding controversial matter. For a time she promenaded the room. The air was thick with feelings. Don’t touch the handle, Annabel! Curse the thing, you’ve jammed it now. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. She counted three on the way to the train and four more on the crowded car that would have gladly taken him to bed with not so much as a word. He waved to her.
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