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. He got up. But though the breach was large enough to admit him below, he could not squeeze his bulky person through the aperture into the Red Room. He begged their attention for the next turn. There was a black fear in his heart. She bounced onto her bottom. Anna, I listened to all that he had to say, and I called to him to let me get out. Oh, you must believe me. They had been playing tennis, with his manifest intention looming over her. "Something worse, I fear," Wood replied.
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