‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration. They did not spend most days together. They became aware of the waitress standing over them with book and pencil ready for their bill. His name is John. There was a gentle rustling of skirts. Bah. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. Miss Miniver looked over her glasses at her friend almost balefully. Ennison’s acquaintance.
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