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The very facts that Miss Miniver never stated an argument clearly, that she was never embarrassed by a sense of self-contradiction, and had little more respect for consistency of statement than a washerwoman has for wisps of vapor, which made Ann Veronica critical and hostile at their first encounter in Morningside Park, became at last with constant association the secret of Miss Miniver’s growing influence. Families had seen their lands seized, their chateaux ransacked or burned, and those unlucky enough to have failed to anticipate disaster, had been murdered or dragged away to gaol. “He spends hours of every day on the pavement below,” Anna answered calmly. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. “Yes,” said Ann Veronica, trying to think where they were, trying to get things plain again that had seemed plain enough in the quiet of the night. Mrs. Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing. After a long fifteen seconds, she pulled her head back into the seat, looking at his face from the close angle, his nose huge and out of perspective, his eyes like round blue pearls. "Constance is yet living. ‘I have no idea. The carpenter did not hesitate a moment. I can be a gentleman. He came along, he said, just to call, with large, loud apologies, radiantly kind and good.
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