A bowl of roses, just brought by Ann Veronica, adorned the communal dressing-table, and Ann Veronica was particularly trim in preparation for a call she was to make with her aunt later in the afternoon. 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. He would stare at her intensely when he was certain his parents were not looking in his direction. “I can’t. He smiled grandly; she could feel the radiance of his approval from across the wedding table. “And children must we women bear— “Oh, damn!” she cried, as the hundred-and-first couplet or so presented itself in her unwilling brain. Perhaps I'd better open it now. On this I am resolved. ” He stepped back as though he had received a blow. Her mind left her.
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