It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour. " "Palliate them as you may," replied the widow, gravely, "they were faults; and as such, cannot be repaired by a greater wrong. E. ” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. But we’ve got the brains to get over that, and tongues in our heads to talk to each other. “What else can happen?” asked Miss Miniver, with a little weak gesture at the glow.
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