The subject matter was generally worthless, but the handling was well done. “John?” He turned around in the recliner. Again silence. Miss Miniver looked out on the world through large emotional blue eyes that were further magnified by the glasses she wore, and her nose was pinched and pink, and her mouth was whimsically petulant. “But I wish,” she said, “I had some idea what I was really up to. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. The voices went into his ears but left no impression of their import. I know my son's voice too well. Certainly not a gentlewoman. There’s a hansom coming round the corner. I met a Hindu a few weeks ago who was a Harvard man.
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