Miss Miniver learned of her flight and got her address from the Widgetts. ‘What is it?’ asked Roding. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. With a moment of inward shame he remembered his deportment towards Anna. Suppose our proper place is a shrine.
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