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Miss Miniver looked out on the world through large emotional blue eyes that were further magnified by the glasses she wore, and her nose was pinched and pink, and her mouth was whimsically petulant. She softened her tone and scrambled for the right words. She told her husband that she wished her nothing more than her own death. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. ” “You will shake hands with me, please,” she begged. “Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. Tea in the laboratory was a sort of suffragette reception. But leave me here in my home, child, I will disintegrate if I am exposed. Born on a South Sea island, she said.
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