Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. Ann Veronica felt suddenly an effect of tremendous pathos; she would have given anything to have been able to frame and make some appeal, some utterance that should bridge this bottomless chasm that had opened between her and her father, and she could find nothing whatever to say that was in the least sincere and appealing. Water poured into her eyes, nose, and mouth in a torrent from which she had to turn and wheeze. Spurling, who wished to protract the discovery of the escape as long as possible. "Manuscripts! Why, this chap is a writer, or is trying to be. The fever came.
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