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. She thought she had hidden well from him. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely. 1. That wrappered life, as you call it—we’ve burned the confounded rags! Danced out of it! We’re stark!” “Stark!” echoed Ann Veronica. For she knew that men married to get something. An ugly flush stained his cheeks. Clientèle was of the most transitory character. She hated living like that. “Thank you,” she said coolly.
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