He’s waiting. Hopefully. Never had he been so intrigued. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. Honestly, I never did. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. He dressed rather after the fashion of the West End than the City, and affected a cultured urbanity that somehow disconcerted and always annoyed Ann Veronica’s father extremely. He has hanged twelve of his associates already. She has given herself up to social work. 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. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly.
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