She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. "I should think so," responded the lethargic turnkey, with a yawn. She leaned forward and addressed him. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. “Glorious! You’re so calm, dear, and so resolute, so serene! “It’s girls like you who will show them what We are,” said Miss Miniver; “girls whose spirits have not been broken!” Ann Veronica sunned herself a little in this warmth.
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