Gerald did not know who she was, but he knew who she was not. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. 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. You are going to be generous and forgive. "Bury her in Willesden churchyard, as she requested, on Sunday," said Jack. Everywhere else—the law, medicine, the Stock Exchange—prejudice bars us. I saw her come out from the flat buildings two minutes before we entered it last night. Such freedoms from such people were not to be endured.
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