“Veronique!” she cried with a rising intonation, though never before had she called Ann Veronica anything but Miss Stanley, and seized her and squeezed her and kissed her with profound emotion. At this time of day the priest would be at his apartments in Brewer Street, a short walk away from Golden Square which the building overlooked. “I’m going for a long tramp, auntie,” she said. I shall take to him as nat'ral as if he were my own flesh and blood afore long. Even now, during the recurring doubts of the future, the thought of the island was repellent. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really. My appearance is genuinely altered for the better.
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