And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. “The dawn!” said Miss Miniver, with her glasses reflecting the fire like pools of blood-red flame. Though encumbered by his irons, his step was firm, and his demeanour dignified. She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being.
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