It would be the culmination of her plan. Her aunt went off at a tangent. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. “Beasts!” But Miss Miniver took no notice of his admission. ‘Never mind that now. Everybody, he felt, must be listening behind their papers. "It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets.
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