A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father. I wonder, Ann Veronica, if, when our time comes, we shall be any wiser?” Ann Veronica watched a water-beetle fussing across the green depths. Carefully abstaining from thrusting against each other, Ann Veronica and her father began an absurdly desperate struggle, the one to open the door, the other to keep it fastened. “Will you come in, Sir John. They are rather a long way off, but you could write to them. He had mentioned teaching her how to read Latin one day when she had wandered into the library. Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. ” “It’s the perpetual trouble,” he said, “of parent and child.
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