Perhaps I may borrow yours one day?’ ‘Lucilla, you wretch,’ burst from the captain. She refused coffee, though she knew that anyhow she was doomed to a sleepless night. Jonathan stepped behind a curtain. 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. It was the incendiary intellectuals of the bourgeoisie, with their militant ideas of revolution, who had raised the populace to a pitch of violence resulting in cases of wholesale slaughter—such as had overtaken the Valades.
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