She got up, as she had been told to do, at his appearance, and he amazed her by sitting down, according to custom, on her stool. From then on he was Ruth's dog. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. Maggot, kissing her hand to him. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was—the sensible thing to do. 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. Maggot. Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me. Clear water gave away to gray as she waded deeper, feeling her slippers on rock. But we’ve got the brains to get over that, and tongues in our heads to talk to each other.
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