She took up a book and threw it down again. My sister was scarcely likely to make a mistake. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. He did not know—and probably never would unless she told him—that it was very easy (and comfortable for a woman) to fall into slatternly ways in this latitude. "Hoddy, Hoddy!… No, no! This is my father!" warned Ruth.
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