Her fingers rested upon his. “Of course,” said Miss Miniver—she went on in a regularly undulating voice —“we DO please men. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. But we’ve got the brains to get over that, and tongues in our heads to talk to each other. Quick, now.
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