But he was destined to have every tide of feeling awakened—every wound opened. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. ” “YOU ASKED YOUR FATHER FOR A REASON!” said Miss Miniver, with great intensity.
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