The sounds of the seashore infiltrated her dreams as she floated in heavenly bliss of sleep. "Constance—or, rather, Mrs. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. They were delighted. ‘Tell me about the convent? Were you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’ ‘Oh, but yes. “I can’t imagine it,” said Miss Miniver. " Some order.
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