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. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. He said that his life was boring and stupid without her. “Twenty-two. ” “It might become one,” he answered. ” “I’m a married man. "He lives at Dollis Hill, a beautiful spot near Willesden, about four or five miles from town, where he has taken a farm.
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