Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. He grabbed her hair viciously and whispered loudly into her tear-streaked face. “You’re Glorious!” said Miss Miniver in tones of rapture, holding a hand in each of hers and peering up into Ann Veronica’s face. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. ‘I did not think so. He had dungarees on and a blue work shirt. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them.
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