The tapstress was full of curiosity; but she appeared more easy than the others. ‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. "No!" she cried. Wood, and you'll find that I've spoken the truth. All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them. 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. It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub the sleeve against the glass.
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