He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. The windows of these rooms were obscured with draperies, their floors a carpet patchwork; the china ornaments on their mantels were of a class apart. “I don’t see,” gasped Ann Veronica, “why parents and children. We shall have—hardly any money. Well, let's beat it to the hotel. Your attitude to me—” He fell into a brown study. " "Only as a brother?" persisted Kneebone. “It was my sister Anna.
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