She got into rows through meddling with their shoes and tennis-rackets, and had moments of carefully concealed admiration when she was privileged to see them just before her bedtime, rather radiantly dressed in white or pink or amber and prepared to go out with her mother. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. ” Anna was speechless, but she had presence of mind enough to sit still until she had recovered herself. That he was hot and breathless was of no matter; in that moment he would have faced a dozen Samsons. It was a work of no slight danger, for every instant a wall, or fragment of a building, came crashing to the ground. She hesitated about her name, and, being prompted, gave it at last as Ann Veronica Smith, 107A, Chancery Lane. How she hated talking of the man who was responsible for her being brought into the world. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard. "No more, please! I am bewildered enough.
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