“It is about your sister, Lady Ferringhall. John. Annabel looked up and down the empty street, and then turned to her sister. She has already forgotten it. Anna came back into the sitting-room with a little sigh of relief. Miss Miniver looked out on the world through large emotional blue eyes that were further magnified by the glasses she wore, and her nose was pinched and pink, and her mouth was whimsically petulant. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. Died short, I suppose, and the girls had to shift for themselves. Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft.
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