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” Lucy finished Michelle’s sentence and steeled her resolve, drawing herself up to a straighter posture. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts. The Master of the Mint. Horrible details recurred to her. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. Daybreak found her winding her painful way along the Harrow Road; and, in order to shorten the distance as much as possible, she took the nearest cut, and struck into the meadows on the right. She wanted to think. “Poor little Miniver! What can she be but what she is?.
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