Part 3 Ann Veronica’s father was a solicitor with a good deal of company business: a lean, trustworthy, worried-looking, neuralgic, clean-shaven man of fifty-three, with a hard mouth, a sharp nose, iron-gray hair, gray eyes, gold-framed glasses, and a small, circular baldness at the crown of his head. “I shall never marry,” said Ann Veronica, resolutely; “I’m not the sort. “Oh, we are also under the spell,” he declared, “but I think that we are here mainly because it is cheap. And I think I will indeed blow off your imbecile head.
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