The quiet encounter and home-coming Ann Veronica and she had contemplated was entirely disorganized by this misadventure; there were no adequate explanations, and after they had settled things at Ann Veronica’s lodgings, they reached home in the early afternoon estranged and depressed, with headaches and the trumpet voice of the indomitable Kitty Brett still ringing in their ears. During her school days, especially her earlier school days, the world had been very explicit with her, telling her what to do, what not to do, giving her lessons to learn and games to play and interests of the most suitable and various kinds. She flared her upper lip, baring her canines which had extended by half an inch. But here was a girl—she must be a girl, since she was his daughter and pat-able—imitating the woman quite remarkably and cleverly. How little he knew about Ruth—the background from which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an aunt in the States. "I never had a pet. “I don’t know. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Loneliness. None saw, though all felt, his presence, and heard the thunder of his voice. Perhaps there were experiences she would never confide to any man. All the world before you, all the ologies. “I too am asked.
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