The fireplace was at the other end, with the sheeted shapes of two sofas either side. All about her, hither and yon, lay the enticing Unknown. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. The air was crisp and dry. "And there you're right, you may dipind, marm," observed Terence. 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. Ah, no, I have it wrong.
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