He was damned if he knew what to do. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. One day she awoke and he was cavorting about underneath the covers. The very facts that Miss Miniver never stated an argument clearly, that she was never embarrassed by a sense of self-contradiction, and had little more respect for consistency of statement than a washerwoman has for wisps of vapor, which made Ann Veronica critical and hostile at their first encounter in Morningside Park, became at last with constant association the secret of Miss Miniver’s growing influence. ‘But he must have—’ ‘Nicholas Charvill never did anything he must do,’ Mrs Sindlesham said evenly.
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