“The dawn!” said Miss Miniver, with her glasses reflecting the fire like pools of blood-red flame. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. She said as much to him. Even were she to get an opportunity to scream, it would be some time before such a call, unprecedented though it might be, brought the nuns so much out of their absorption that they interrupted their prayer to investigate. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin.
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