He too was flushed and ruffled; one side of his collar had slipped from its stud and he held a hand to the corner of his jaw. "I have nothing to forgive. ‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. “The dawn!” said Miss Miniver, with her glasses reflecting the fire like pools of blood-red flame. It was dawn: Cathy would soon be off to the restaurant and Larry off to paint a house. Better even than these. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value.
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