Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. She had asked about that already, and her father had replied, evasively: “We’ll have to see about that, little Vee; we’ll have to see about that. ‘I try to be. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. She lit the cigarette with a tiny Kelly green drugstore lighter. ” He made to speak and did not. So these two young philosophers got along very well that day; and the succeeding days.
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