She felt sickeningly empty. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. She would not forgive me. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. Of all the entirely English women I know, you’re the only one with a French accent. He himself had deadened the sound by closing the door. “My dear,” she began, with an affectionate hand on Ann Veronica’s shoulder, “I do SO wish you would realize how it grieves your father. THAMES DARRELL.
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