" "Ah! Sometimes I wonder I don't run amok and kill someone," said the Wastrel, in broken English. “Please stop fighting me. Ann Veronica found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees—almost as if he was a brother. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday.
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