His foot tapped impatiently, and he took up the papers. “I can’t imagine it,” said Miss Miniver. 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. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. That he had resolved upon its execution, whatever it might be, was evident from his saying aloud,— "I will do it. “Who killed her husband?” “Go and nurse him, missus!” “Murderess!” Anna looked from left to right. This threat terrified Ann Veronica so much that she declared with sobs and vehemence that she would never come home again, and for a time both talked at once and very wildly.
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