Dear me, what a difference it has made! No one would ever think that we were sisters. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. “I wonder what he will do?” She tried to imagine situations that might arise out of Ramage’s antagonism, for he had been so bitter and savage that she could not believe that he would leave things as they were. She wanted to live. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. ” He writhed. " "There's no hurry. She was greatly exercised by the problem of confiding in the Widgetts; they were dears, and she talked away two evenings with Constance without broaching the topic; she made some vague intimations in letters to Miss Miniver that Miss Miniver failed to mark. .
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