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” Dessert was served. ‘I will do so. He stopped, panting hard, slamming his cane to the floor to make use of its much-needed support. ‘That’s not much comfort. ” “Did it come—in Paris?” “I do not know,” he answered. And it's uncanny. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. 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. Ann Veronica decided that “hoydenish ragger” was the only phrase to express her. He perceived, however, that both the novels he read and the world he lived in discountenanced these assumptions.
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