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’s riding down the drive. She had slapped him away with her free hand and the finger was released suddenly, sending her careening to the floor. Once before—but that had been different. You have to see her to understand.
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