No matter. Miss Miniver looked out on the world through large emotional blue eyes that were further magnified by the glasses she wore, and her nose was pinched and pink, and her mouth was whimsically petulant. “This is MY thing,” said Ann Veronica, softly, with thoughtful eyes upon him. It was his heart. “It’s bound to be all right,” she said. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. “I think that’s the right name. This helped to restore Ann Veronica’s self-command. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau.
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