She started at the falling of a leaf, at the lumbering of a cow through the hedge. 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. She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner. Was she interested in that young ass who was risking his bones over there in the city? They had come up on the same boat. “I may go to Hatton House later, but you needn’t wait. ‘Now I see that you are mad indeed.
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