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Miss Miniver looked out on the world through large emotional blue eyes that were further magnified by the glasses she wore, and her nose was pinched and pink, and her mouth was whimsically petulant. We looked upon you, my dear Sir John, with reverence, almost with awe. “Will you come this way,” she said, “into the drawing-room? There is no one there just now. She found her foster father and Mike still awake, playing high stakes UNO at the dimly lit kitchen table. “How old are you?” “Sixteen. I'm glad to recognise you.

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