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. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Even her debt to him was a triviality now. "When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. Wood," she cried, as the staff fell from his grasp. In futur', I'll keep the 'Evenin' Star' for his lordship's enemies. The gun flew from his hand, clacking on the floor. He has hanged twelve of his associates already. His appetite was perfectly Gargantuan. ‘This is insupportable.
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