Ann Veronica felt suddenly an effect of tremendous pathos; she would have given anything to have been able to frame and make some appeal, some utterance that should bridge this bottomless chasm that had opened between her and her father, and she could find nothing whatever to say that was in the least sincere and appealing. ‘Kimble, you shouldn’t be here. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. Come along, you mad jade. He doesn't resemble you at all. “Yes. Presently she was going through a swaying, noisy crowd, whose faces grinned and stared pitilessly in the light of the electric standards.
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