Miss Miniver looked over her glasses at her friend almost balefully. From McClintock's came an infernal tinkletinkle, tump-tump! There was no composing with such a sound hammering upon the ear. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. He took a handful of the gravelly mud, with which the platform was covered, and threw the small pebbles, one by one, towards the gleam. I should have gone mad without it. The boy was right.
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