It began as a joke. E. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. “I said you were”—he shouted—“NOT TO GO!” She made, and overdid, an immense effort to be a princess. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. 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.
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