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. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. ‘Espéce de diable,’ she screamed. Then she burst into a peal of laughter. ‘Damnation!’ Confused, he released her, and in an instant she had darted away and was running down the garden. " "But, do hear what it is," rejoined Winifred; "you know I'm shortly to be united to your nephew,—that is," she added, blushing, "when he can be married by his right name, for my father won't consent to it before. "That would be certain destruction.
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