Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. For a time she worried about that compulsory bath and cutaneous diseases. Her heels made contact with Rhea’s knees and hobbled her with a crack. Wood, at the top of her voice. Where was the harm in letting her go? She could not get far. 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.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTM1LjIxOS4yMDkgLSAyNi0wNi0yMDI0IDEyOjEyOjQyIC0gMzYxODI3ODQ4
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