She wanted to kiss his feet. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. “Of course,” said Miss Miniver—she went on in a regularly undulating voice —“we DO please men. “You see, I will take your arm. I won't keep you long. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. “I know that our social order is dreadful enough,” he said, “and sacrifices all that is best and most beautiful in life. Help! help!" But her cries were unheeded. ‘What we have to find out is whether or not the wretched female is in fact Lord Charvill’s granddaughter. Still —there you are!” He paused. But you! Why the devil did you marry her? That's the thing that confounds me.
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