“Marriage certificates don’t tell lies, at any rate,” he said. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. Once a week, every Saturday, they had a little gathering from nine till the small hours, just talk and perhaps reading aloud and fruitarian refreshments—chestnut sandwiches buttered with nut tose, and so forth—and lemonade and unfermented wine; and to one of these symposia Miss Miniver after a good deal of preliminary solicitude, conducted Ann Veronica. Sheila’s own waif of a husband had objected to her airing the truth, he had even gotten the nerve to bring up the word divorce. But that brought Mrs.
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