In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “I see the difficulty. "No, Rollo; not this afternoon. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension. Suppose her father turned her out of doors! She did not care, she meant to go.
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