He stood outside of the car, bewildered, as she walked up to the BMW’s front bumper. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays.
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