On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. Ann Veronica stared at his foolish, propitiatory smile, his hungry gaze, through one moment of amazement, then stepped aside and went on her way with a quickened step. “I am afraid your broken dinner engagement will not be so easy to explain. But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. You did not say a word about it last week, nor have you written. It’s just because all that side of your life hasn’t fairly begun. Supposing that was it; at least, a solution to part of this amazing riddle? Supposing her father had made her assist him in the care of the derelicts solely to fill her with loathing and abhorrence for mankind? "Didn't you despise the men your father brought home—the beachcombers?" "No. Finally she decided that even for an hotel she must look round, and that meanwhile she would “book” her luggage at Waterloo. Oh God! pardon me.
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