“Nothing,” said Ann Veronica, and stared over her shoulder out of the window. "Take courage, man; it is only Quilt Arnold. The perception of him flooded her being. When I went I was refused admittance. Don't feel fussed upon my account. It hardly served his interests. I don’t know why that should be so acutely humiliating. ’ ‘And you believe her?’ asked Lucilla, raising her brows. 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. I want to shout! I want to sing! I am glad! I am glad to be alive because you are alive! I am glad to be a woman because you are a man! I am glad! I am glad! I am glad! I thank God for life and you. ” She said. "Ha! say you so? You must be looked to. It’s odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels.
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