Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. The world into which she was so boldly venturing was going to be wonderful, but never so wonderful as the world within these paper covers. He stepped quickly towards her. “Looks like old times here, I see. ” “It’s the perpetual trouble,” he said, “of parent and child. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her.
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