Nobody regards Constance or Vee as a delicate trifle. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. Her father was distinctly irascible, and disposed more than ever to hide away among the petrological things—the study was turned out. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. Worse than any man. She shuddered as his naked body pressed against her. Entranced, he stared at the name. ‘Of course she don’t understand,’ snapped Charvill irascibly. Even in death, Vorsack was not a man. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. "My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. . See paragraph 1. Jordan and Josiah.
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