She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. 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. ‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked. He felt her warm breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair as she leaned over him. Everywhere else—the law, medicine, the Stock Exchange—prejudice bars us. You.
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