"I knew his poor mother, and for her sake I'll not see this done," cried John Dump. It could only mean one thing—that her foster daughter was both a whore and a murderer! When Sheila confronted her about it, it was five in the morning. She was standing there, smiling at the audience as at her friends. It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. But she was disturbed, mysteriously disturbed. 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.
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