It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. Miss Miniver learned of her flight and got her address from the Widgetts. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired. CHAPTER XIV.
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