Part 3 Ann Veronica’s father was a solicitor with a good deal of company business: a lean, trustworthy, worried-looking, neuralgic, clean-shaven man of fifty-three, with a hard mouth, a sharp nose, iron-gray hair, gray eyes, gold-framed glasses, and a small, circular baldness at the crown of his head. I deemed it more prudent to send him to the Dark House than to bring him here, in case of any search after him by his adoptive father—the carpenter Wood. It is attested, you will observe, by the Reverend Mr. John moved closer to her, getting up from his roost by one bench, he joined her at the bench where she sat. He knew very well that his muscles were flabby, and his nerve by no means what it should be. Teddy was the hatless young man who had turned Ann Veronica aside from the Avenue two days before. “I was sick of the make-believe. A garrison called to arms at dead of night on the sudden approach of the enemy, could not have been more expeditiously, or effectually aroused.
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