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. “I have a letter for him from his brother, which I was just leaving. ‘Never mind that now. Austin was dismissing a host of inquirers who had been attracted thither by the news,—for it had already been extensively noised abroad. My birthday was on May first. "Then his case is hopeless. “But it is so difficult——” “Not at all,” he answered eagerly. ” Miss Stanley rose and regarded Ann Veronica fixedly. Then I tucked it nice and snug under the saddle-bag. “Thank you. There was a coffee equipage on the table, and some sandwiches, and the fire had been recently made up. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered.
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