Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. The walls are too high, and the windows too stoutly barricaded in this quarter, to admit such a supposition. ‘And you know, my dear, I do think you must make up your mind to beard this wretched grandfather of yours. She held it by the neck and broke the end of the bottle on the hard dirt. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father.
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