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She looked round wildly, as if seeking some source of help, as the boots halted at the front door and the shouting intensified. There was no reason why she shouldn’t be his restrained and dignified friend. 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. Playing with one hand he turned on his stool to glance at her. “You are magnificent,” she said, “but the steel of your truth is a little oversharpened.
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