” “It’s all the same,” said Miss Miniver. She had, it was true, accepted doubtfully the pen he had offered. Clarice loved babies as much as Lucia did and chattered about them day and night. And mind you don't arouse his suspicions. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights.
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