Part 3 Ann Veronica’s father was a solicitor with a good deal of company business: a lean, trustworthy, worried-looking, neuralgic, clean-shaven man of fifty-three, with a hard mouth, a sharp nose, iron-gray hair, gray eyes, gold-framed glasses, and a small, circular baldness at the crown of his head. “Who took care of you after she died?” “My father. ” “What ball?” The question was rhetorical. A single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen through it. "I am surprised we have received no summons for attendance to-day," he remarked; "perhaps the other robber may be secured. But this was not a season in which to be needlessly scrupulous. Perhaps Ferringhall has pensioned her off. ‘Good. “You see,” he said, “from my point of view you’re grown up— you’re as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. They looked out over the city, grim and silent now, for it was long past midnight.
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