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“One can’t tell. The funeral, it has just been said, took place on that day. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. Wood, softening her asperity. And later they paddled in a boat above the mysterious deeps of the See, and peered down into the green-blues and the blue-greens together. People were passing in the street below. 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.
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