"But vere'll be the use o' vinnin'? you von't live to pay me. Remember ——” Annabel clutched her sister’s arm. 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. And as he walked by her side they began a wrangle that was none the less pleasant to Ann Veronica because it served to banish a disagreeable preoccupation. Awkwardly, he closed his eyes and fumbled for a kiss. Mr. pglaf.
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