" "You shall be treated according to your deserts, then," said Jonathan, maliciously. I am your husband, though as yet your hand has scarcely lain in mine. Don’t touch the handle, Annabel! Curse the thing, you’ve jammed it now. He grabbed her hair viciously and whispered loudly into her tear-streaked face. She sat, crouched together, by the corner of the hearthrug under the bookcase that supported the pig’s skull, and looked into the fire and up at Ann Veronica’s face, and let herself go. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. "They're about to murder your child —your child, I tell you! Do you comprehend what I say, Joan?" "I've hurt my head," replied Mrs. I didn’t know that you had it that bad,” said John. There’s always friction, conflict, unwilling concessions.
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