“I may not see the Widgetts for some little time, father,” she said. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. Miss Miniver looked out on the world through large emotional blue eyes that were further magnified by the glasses she wore, and her nose was pinched and pink, and her mouth was whimsically petulant. She was gone. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. I shall count it a privilege.
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