” Mr. She wanted to scream, but there was no one to scream for. I do not think you quite understand my ideals or what is becoming as between father and daughter. ” Ann Veronica was stung to helpless anger. He called a waiter. On weighing the matter over, he grew so uneasy that he resolved to descend, and inform him of his misgivings. 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. It never is. “I have made over seven hundred pounds in the last week,” he said.
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