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. Most of the time, he was hunting and he returned at night. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. “The conventions do not matter one little bit. Anna, you shall not go. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. “Well——” She stopped short. Usually it was fish sticks and reheated noodles. “A man like that taints a girl by looking at her, by his mere conversation. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers.
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