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. See paragraph 1. Don't you remember? There were four of us, and we went touring in the city. “I wonder—I wonder if we shall ever get like that. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit. “He couldn’t look me in the face and say it,” said Ann Veronica. “You don’t waste any time. This child was frequently disconcerting. Though there is something to be said for your idea of a secret convent, at least as a hiding place. “Glaciers?” she said. The tide'll bring him to us fast enough.
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