The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. "She was mine before you ever saw her. She kissed his neck and licked him there. 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. You are wedged in amongst a crowd, perhaps in the promenade, you lean over the back, you are almost out of sight. “It isn’t fair. ‘Pen and paper, do you have them?’ ‘Danged if I have,’ came the truculent response.
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