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. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. Melusine ran up the stairway after him, her point flailing to frighten him into allowing her access to the chapel. “Thank you, Martin,” she replied graciously.
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