Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. 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. "All right," he said. ‘Sir?’ enquired the lad. So long as she could remember, her father had never permitted her to sit at the table unless she came fully dressed. ’ ‘We had other matters on hand this morning,’ Roding told him sharply. ’ ‘That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
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