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. Then he paused. What had been happening all this time? ‘Do you tell me he has not again left his apartment?’ ‘Only to go to some party or other Monday night,’ Kimble said. ” She said, embarrassed. “I don’t think you realize,” Ann Veronica began again, “that I am rather a defective human being. ” “Because your nerves were exposed, that was no excuse for my touching them.
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