"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. She was drawn first by Miss Miniver, and then by her own natural interest, into a curious stratum of people who are busied with dreams of world progress, of great and fundamental changes, of a New Age that is to replace all the stresses and disorders of contemporary life. There she sought and at last found 107A, one of those heterogeneous piles of offices which occupy the eastern side of the lane. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. The intense darkness added to the terror of the storm. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. “What made you think” he said, abruptly, with the gleam of avidity in his face, “that love makes people happy?” “I know it must.
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