“I really owe him something of an apology. Ann Veronica, who knew her dress became her, dropped a curtsy to her father’s regard. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. But I see very clearly that as things are a daughter is necessarily dependent on her father and bound while she is in that position to live harmoniously with his ideals. He's settling an account in the house. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. ” A little sobbing cry from Annabel arrested Sir John’s attention. “Confound sex from first to last!” said Ann Veronica.
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