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. Suddenly, she heard the crunch of new feet on the gravel. With something near to horror they found themselves thus confronted. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. “Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill. . . Sheppard. Jonathan is capable of anything. "Look at him!" Ruth looked. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is.
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