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’ ‘Militia, miss,’ Kimble corrected her. “The dawn!” said Miss Miniver, with her glasses reflecting the fire like pools of blood-red flame. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. Mischief bubbled up in her. “You are going to treat me as though I wasn’t.
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