A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. 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. Spurlock halted in his tracks. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. “But I have forbidden it!” he said, raising his voice. For a long time neither spoke again.
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