She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. “But was it wise to sing to-night?” “Why not? The man was nothing to me. “Everybody is taking it up,” said Miss Miniver. Turning to Melusine, he grabbed both her wrists and held her away from him, as if afraid that she might go for him.
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