And here against a wall were the plumtrees. You see, we travelled second class, and we are in the least known quarter of Paris. 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. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent’s Park. There would be no moon. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. Who knows?—on the analogy of “Squiggles” she might come to call him “Mangles!” “I don’t think I can ever marry any one,” she said, and fell suddenly into another set of considerations that perplexed her for a time.
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