Ann Veronica found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees—almost as if he was a brother. Twice she smiled, but not unkindly. She held it down with the poker, looking nervously over her shoulder. But not today. ‘Give me that!’ He took his finger away from her neck and made a grab at the handkerchief. They said no more for a moment, and each was now acutely aware of the other. The looming face was 71 over her own once again, and arms as strong as iron bars held her down.
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