Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. "What did you do?" he asked, in a broken voice. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights.
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