Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. Wood. Imagine her, putting herself to all this delay and inconvenience for a young wastrel she did not know and who, the moment he got on his feet, would doubtless pass out of her life without so much as Thank you! And it was ten to one that she would not comprehend the ingratitude. She opened her eyes. The very facts that Miss Miniver never stated an argument clearly, that she was never embarrassed by a sense of self-contradiction, and had little more respect for consistency of statement than a washerwoman has for wisps of vapor, which made Ann Veronica critical and hostile at their first encounter in Morningside Park, became at last with constant association the secret of Miss Miniver’s growing influence. Your life is like a funeral March. Vite, I pray you. And now, my love," she added, with a relenting look, "I'm content to make up our quarrel.
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