I loitered in the shop as you chatted with the butcher’s girl. Predictably, Charvill turned on him. There's good stuff in him, if one could find the way to dig it out. She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really. Kneebone nodded. In passing, why do we fear death? For our sins? Rather, isn't it the tremendous inherent human curiosity to know what is going to happen to-morrow that causes us to wince at the thought of annihilation? A subconscious resentment against the idea of entering darkness while our neighbour will proceed with his petty affairs as usual? "It's nip and tuck," said the doctor; "but we'll pull him through.
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