E. Ann Veronica, who knew her dress became her, dropped a curtsy to her father’s regard. His tie had demanded a struggle; he ought to have taken a clean one after his first failure. She heard this standard expression of a strong soul wrung with a critical coldness that astonished herself. She was trembling a little. Toys! Delicate trifles! A sex of invalids. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him.
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