Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. I hate children. But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms …! "I am a thief!" he whispered. That would be an unkind twist of fate. . I can fairly understand Ruth; but you…!" "Have you ever been so lonely that the soul of you cried in anguish? Twentyfour hours a day to think in, alone?… Perhaps I did not want to go mad from loneliness. 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.
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