"Please tell me whenever I am at fault. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. He's worth a dozen of you. 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. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. She put her mouth on him.
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