As in all things, so his thoughts came to him deliberately. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. But we cannot discuss this here. “Everybody is taking it up,” said Miss Miniver. “Don’t fence with me,” Anna cried fiercely.
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