“My dear,” she began, with an affectionate hand on Ann Veronica’s shoulder, “I do SO wish you would realize how it grieves your father. " "What?" "We'll put those stories back into the trunk and never speak of them to him. She felt a cheat and a sneak to his unsuspecting retreating back. When my father died, and we were left alone in Jersey, I was quite a long time deciding whether I would go in for singing professionally or try painting. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. ‘When we met probably, and you threatened me at the first. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do.
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