“And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts. His arm fell to his side. \" She said, and they walked down the pebble stone path designed for joggers and bikers. “Troubles, my friend,” she exclaimed lightly. He had had five children at irregular intervals, of whom Ann Veronica was the youngest, so that as a parent he came to her perhaps a little practised and jaded and inattentive; and he called her his “little Vee,” and patted her unexpectedly and disconcertingly, and treated her promiscuously as of any age between eleven and eight-and-twenty. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction.
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