“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. ‘Ah, grandpére. Women to me are something so serene, so fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and quarrelsome. She took up the poker and stirred the fire vigorously. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground. No tricks would serve. “I knew you would feel it,” said Miss Miniver, as they came away flushed and heated. '" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea.
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