“Of course,” said Miss Miniver—she went on in a regularly undulating voice —“we DO please men. We’ll have some buttered toast. That held his thought as the magnet holds the needle, inescapably. “Splendid it must be to be a composer. But out of a belated regard for her father she wrote the surname of some one else. I had never dreamed of such a friend as you. All we have to apprehend is a rescue. She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire. He's now in spring-ankle warehouse with Sir Rowland Trenchard. But a time will come (and that before long,) when our sex will assert its superiority; and, when we have got the upper hand, let 'em try to subdue us if they can.
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