He too was flushed and ruffled; one side of his collar had slipped from its stud and he held a hand to the corner of his jaw. 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. It is only a matter of time before he presents himself to whoever has the deeds to Remenham House—a lawyer I presume—and claims that property for his wife’s. “Better,” said Ann Veronica, with an unreal alacrity. But about his unknown rival he was acutely curious. “Now look here, Veronica, let us be plain with each other.
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