“Annabel! Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, child?” she exclaimed. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. “These clothes are French, and I’m sure this floppy bow would make a Frenchman of me anyhow. . Ann Veronica found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees—almost as if he was a brother. Only you good ones— shirk.
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