" "If this is the extent of it, Sir," returned the knight, ironically, "you may spare yourself further trouble. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. 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. “You don’t want to go?” “No. Clothes.
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