Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. Talk to her of the new story; divert her; for this day her heart has been twisted sorely. My letters are returned unopened, her maid will not even allow me across the doorstep. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really.
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