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. He came in apologetically; all the old “Well, and how ARE we?” note gone; and once he asked Ann Veronica, almost furtively, “How’s Alice getting on, Vee?” Finally, on the Day, he appeared like his old professional self transfigured, in the most beautiful light gray trousers Ann Veronica had ever seen and a new shiny silk hat with a most becoming roll. She was watching him intently. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. By-the-bye, have you seen this new woman at the ‘Empire’? What is it they call her—‘Alcide?’” “Yes, I have seen her,” Ennison answered. “But I still think of my old foster brothers and sisters. To think of him as loving her would make all that different. Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. She kissed Cathy's soft cheek as she entered the warm kitchen. Kneebone, are these your French noblemen?" "Don't upbraid me!" rejoined the woollen-draper.
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