Ann Veronica felt suddenly an effect of tremendous pathos; she would have given anything to have been able to frame and make some appeal, some utterance that should bridge this bottomless chasm that had opened between her and her father, and she could find nothing whatever to say that was in the least sincere and appealing. He whispered in her ear. Then he lifted the black cloak-like garment from the floor. Let me recommend a glass of wine. “I cannot say who he is,” said Ann Veronica, “but he is a married man. Wood. The whole story of your relationship is a fabrication. Stanley had never thought out. She was thinking fast now, all her senses on the alert. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult.
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