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. You have been to me like a mother, not only a wetnurse. “It is, if anything, a little above the average,” Brendon admitted. She came along with the fluttering assurance of some tall ship. He was never known to err, and was as much dreaded as the jailfever in consequence.
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