Ann Veronica found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees—almost as if he was a brother. Can it ever be so good again?” Ann Veronica put out a firm hand and squeezed his arm. She reached a tiny yellow-fronted cottage covered with flowering creepers, and entered the front room by the wide-open window. I can’t tell anyone certain things about my life.
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