Part 3 Ann Veronica’s father was a solicitor with a good deal of company business: a lean, trustworthy, worried-looking, neuralgic, clean-shaven man of fifty-three, with a hard mouth, a sharp nose, iron-gray hair, gray eyes, gold-framed glasses, and a small, circular baldness at the crown of his head. You know you don’t mean it. What was the old tabby at? Unaccountably embarrassed, he cleared his throat. My reception at West Kensington you know of.
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