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. She walked with long swinging steps, scorning the thought of buses or the tube. "I am so excessively fond of snuff. At the end of two long lines of foot-guards stood the cart with a powerful black horse harnessed to it. He must preserve it, however, as they preserved the Ark of the Covenant. Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round.
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