” “I’ll try not to see him again,” said Ann Veronica. “I suppose, daddy, you’ve no objection to my going on with my work at the Imperial College?” she asked. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. She fought him with tooth and nail. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. “They died within a few months of one another.
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