“What else can happen?” asked Miss Miniver, with a little weak gesture at the glow. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. It saved me the bother of being studied. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 19-09-2024 03:16:02
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