“The dawn!” said Miss Miniver, with her glasses reflecting the fire like pools of blood-red flame. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. Something in her tone made him look up. “I—I am sorry—I didn’t explain.
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