"Too late, master," replied the landlord of the Trumpeter, in a surly tone, for he did not much like the appearance of his customer; "just shut up shop. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. Her sense of humour could not wholly resist his abnormal gravity. “Yes, but I act older than I look. ‘Dead then, is he?’ ‘If I could say that he is dead, it would give me very much satisfaction. “But why is it preposterous?” asked Ann Veronica, and fiddled with a pipe on the mantel.
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