It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. 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. ’ She threw a melting look at Roding. Plainly. Here was not the individual against whom she had been warned. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand. To be sure, he was attentive, respectful; but in his conduct there was none of that shameless camaraderie of a man who loved his woman and didn't care a hang if all the world knew it. ” “It gives in a nutshell the miracle of art and the imagination.
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