It was a dark mysterious place, and what it was used for no one exactly knew; but it was called by those who had seen it the Well Hole. Neither father, aunt, nor brothers made a sign, and then one afternoon in early February her aunt came up in a state between expostulation and dignified resentment, but obviously very anxious for Ann Veronica’s welfare. You forget all the mass of training and tradition and instinct that go to make him a tolerable master. Here she would find candy awaiting her, bits of ribbon, books. Lonesomeness isn't my worry. Was he, too, on the way to the beach? What a pity! All alone, and none to warn him of the abject wretchedness at the end of Drink. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. Walpole, and then to Newgate. I suspect he has a bit of vanity.
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