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. My mother, I'm sure, didn't intend to hurt your feelings. The picture of Mary Remenham was still on the wall. ‘What do you say of these troops?’ ‘You see, we’re militia.
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