“Miserable bounder,” he murmured. Our quarrel's quite over. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane. “Is this true, Annabel? Is he dead?” She nodded. She rode him gently. 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.
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