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. Oh, and weeks and months of thought and feeling there are bottled up too. “I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica; “I think I am. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. ‘Both of them so wise after the event. "Not in the least," returned Kneebone, slyly, "not in the least.
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