"Egad!" exclaimed Wood, "you've hit the right nail on the head, anyhow. “It was a phase,” she said. ‘Give me my pistol!’ Gerald shook his head, slipping the pistol into his pocket. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. 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. And how could I come home—when he locks me in rooms and all that?” “I do wish this wasn’t going on,” said Miss Stanley, after a pause.
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