” He paused, and went on, after a keen look at her: “I had rather gossip to a really intelligent girl than to any man alive. It looks so French to be affectionate. 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. He must fight the thought continually, day in and day out. “Not a bit. "Do you know what you are talking about, Mrs. My late husband, I mean. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care.
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