She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. He added, ‘Also others, but I don’t recall them. ‘When you’re my age, you’ll be just as hardheaded. The children made us slaves, and the men took advantage of it. Perhaps, as you say, I do not really care—but I cannot do it. 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. “You would believe that life is kindled by the passions alone.
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