” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. ” For a moment she was grave. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you. Her tone was icy. His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish. ” “We will,” said Miss Miniver, refusing to be suppressed, “if some of us have to be killed to get it.
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