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. “I don’t see that his being a good sort matters. She laughed as the deluge seemed to grow worse with every step. The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. “Let me think,” said Ann Veronica. He might spend the rest of his days at McClintock's in perfect security.
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