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 was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. Time after time he sent Spurlock into this corner or that; but always the boy regained his feet before the murderous boot could reach the mark. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. “They’re all doing great. ” He was intrigued. A single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen through it. ‘Well said, my dear.
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