They were enormously pleased with one another; they found each other beyond measure better than they had expected, if only because of the want of substance in mere expectation. 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 enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. Because of the woman’s pregnant status, a panic had spread in the county that a serial murderer was afoot, but she had made sure to copy the crimes of a famous serial killer that she had read about in the paper to cover herself and mislay blame. A sophisticated woman would have translated the tone as a caress.
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