“You’re Glorious!” said Miss Miniver in tones of rapture, holding a hand in each of hers and peering up into Ann Veronica’s face. My death, probably. For I still love her mother. Miss Stanley had determined from the outset to have the warmest affection for her youngest niece and to be a second mother in her life—a second and a better one; but she had found much to battle with, and there was much in herself that Ann Veronica failed to understand. The Scot understood that, gently and indirectly, Ruth was asking her husband a question, opening a door if he cared to enter. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. She had never been to the opera before except as one of a congested mass of people in the cheaper seats, and with backs and heads and women’s hats for the frame of the spectacle; there was by contrast a fine large sense of space and ease in her present position. ‘Parbleu,’ she uttered indignantly. In Hamilton Place that is, like I told you before, miss.
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