Courtlaw, is it not,” she remarked, with lifted eyebrows. Miss Miniver looked over her glasses at her friend almost balefully. “You found the cabochon? After all these years?” He asked, incredulous. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street.
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