’ *** Everett, General Lord Charvill, master of a barony stretching over a wide estate that encroached on the hundreds of Witham, Thurstable and Dengy, stood before his own fireplace, glaring at his visitors from under bushy white brows from a head held necessarily low above a back painfully bent by rheumatism. Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. “The dawn!” said Miss Miniver, with her glasses reflecting the fire like pools of blood-red flame. The agony on the sands now ceased to puzzle her. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world.
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