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 stabbed a kitchen knife between her ribs. Last week. “These are her rooms,” she said. For a time she could scarcely believe he was gone. She told you —the truth.
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