She had come to despise those who were fertile out of pure jealousy, but could not admit it to herself. . 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. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. “There ought to be some means of getting at him,” he said. Earles regarded it approvingly.
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