“I can’t imagine it,” said Miss Miniver. If you'd read your husband's dying speech, you'd know that he laid his death at Jonathan's door,—and with reason too, as I can testify. The psychic vibration of him thickened the air of the room as if he were already inside. Mr. “Love should be enough, John, but it never is. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered.
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