Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. A day will come when you will thank me. “But, dear, think! He is your father. Mr. Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of marrying you, when he grows old enough. ” And Ann Veronica’s face was hot. It was warm, shielding, comforting, and what was more, full of understanding.
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