Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. The chair was torture. Teddy was the hatless young man who had turned Ann Veronica aside from the Avenue two days before. "What shall we do, Poll?" hesitated Edgeworth Bess. I shall like to think of it—whenever I feel dull. She wished he could smoke and dull his nerves a little. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg.
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