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. “May I ask whether you are staying with friends in town?” he inquired deferentially. “All right, Dunster,” he said. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. The newcomer stopped short upon the threshold.
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