“All’s well that ends well,” he said; “and the less one says about things the better. Her face scarcely reflected his enthusiasm. “Can you spare me forty pounds?” she said. 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. His fears supplied him with unwonted vigour. What the editor had to say none of the three cared just then. But not once in these ten years had they borne blossom or fruit.
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