There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. “Let me see,” he said. Love, obliterated, annihilated; out of his heart and out of his Bible. He seemed to possess infinite reserves of patience when she refused him or purposely tried to bait and anger him, but his patience only made him seem more sinister. He was a stranger. He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett.
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