His kind eyes were puffy with fatigue. One day she awoke and he was cavorting about underneath the covers. And still you interest yourself in my affairs. This is the way the old thief brings in all his heavy plunder, which he stows in out-of-the-way holes in his infernal dwelling. He had had five children at irregular intervals, of whom Ann Veronica was the youngest, so that as a parent he came to her perhaps a little practised and jaded and inattentive; and he called her his “little Vee,” and patted her unexpectedly and disconcertingly, and treated her promiscuously as of any age between eleven and eight-and-twenty. His spirits began to rise. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “Every one raves about her,” Lady Angela continued.
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