No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. “We are the species,” said Miss Miniver, “men are only incidents. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. “I think,” he said, “I was a little too mystical about beauty the other day. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning.
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