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. She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. Sheila decided to do a little laundry one day, clothes that were in Lucy’s hamper, a dirty clothes bin that Lucy had insisted that she have for herself separate from the family one. Someone was coming out of the house. Thames, you needn't tidy yourself, as you've hurt your arm. But if you mean to take me to this Gérard, I shall know what to say to him. I didn’t! I didn’t! After all—” For a time her mind ran on daintiness and its defensive restraints as though it was the one desirable thing.
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