I called myself Anna. It was hard to meet that gaze. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. 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. After all, she was a consummate actress.
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