Her father’s step quickened to a trot. 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. “The truth!” It was a moment of awkwardness between the two sisters —a moment, too, charged with its own psychological interest, for there were secrets between them which for many months had made their intercourse a constrained and difficult thing. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. “Of course I’m manager for this expedition,” he said, after an interval of self-examination. Of course, I don't believe she's what you would call flush.
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