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. But his astonishment would have been great indeed had he known that not even her father had ever caressed her, either with lips or with hands. I knew where I would go next: Florence. When she awoke, she felt sick, her mouth still salty with blood. ‘Would it so? What sort of a girl is she, then?’ ‘She’s a consummate devil,’ Gerald declared roundly.
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