Miss Miniver said that if once she lost her faith in Tolstoy’s sincerity, nothing she felt would really matter much any more, and she appealed to Ann Veronica whether she did not feel the same; and Mr. “Your name and address in his pocket was no delusion,” he said sharply. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. He breathed heavily, as though he had been running. He did not look up, so he did not know that in her other hand she held a glass of wine. It’s a damned hard thing to do.
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