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 could run away from him, if she wished, as she had run away from her father; she could carry out the original adventure. Anna glanced into her sister’s face, and rose to her feet. But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury. You see, we travelled second class, and we are in the least known quarter of Paris. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount.
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