” Ann Veronica sat with her chin on her hand, red-lit and saying little, and Miss Miniver discoursed. I had left Paris. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. Steeples toppled, and towers reeled beneath its fury. The family always managed to make it home for supper, even though it was a dying custom. ‘Well, shan’t I come to the major’s house up Stratton Street, sir?’ ‘I’ll give the major your report, Trodger. She had to wear cream and a brown sash and a short frock and her hair down, and Gwen cream and a brown sash and a long skirt and her hair up. Aunt Jane had her quiet moments. She changed her mind that day, as her mother Marina had predicted.
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