His light brown hair was almost crew cut short. “I suppose, Vee, you don’t see much of those Widgetts now?” “I go in and talk to Constance sometimes. 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. Sebastian dug through the viscous layers of foul-smelling clay with a shovel, each successive insertion creating an obscene sucking noise that ate at her sanity. She began to weep in long, aching sobs. “Of course. “Vee!” said Miss Stanley, “you hear what your father says!” Miss Stanley struggled with emotion. Wild in his own domain. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all.
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