She knew the story only imperfectly, and followed it now with a passionate and deepening interest. 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. “I imagine,” Sir John said, “that your sister would acquaint him with it. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son.
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