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. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. She could run away from him, if she wished, as she had run away from her father; she could carry out the original adventure. She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. "And now," he continued, sternly, "was it your master who has just ridden by?" "No," answered Quilt, sullenly. ‘No, no, I am convinced your very first theory was right.
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