Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. ‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. And the woollen-draper departed. "You're mistaken, Winny.
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