82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome. The door was locked; but, with the bars of iron, it was speedily burst open. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. 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. Twice she smiled, but not unkindly.
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