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. ‘Yes, but quite my own fault. “This is the slavery of the veiled life. “I thought we had discussed that, father. It was, in his opinion, the most astonishing letter he had ever read. Women are not in the world in the same sense that men are—fighting individuals in a scramble. "For my part, I don't think you ever quite got over the accident you met with on the night of the Great Storm. "You heard me say it! It was inevitable. Wood, delighted at the idea. But I'll tell e'e what we might do——" The young man heard no more. I deserve pretty much what I’ve got. What about them?” He called a hansom.
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