“And to think that it’s not a full year ago since I was a black-hearted rebel school-girl, distressed, puzzled, perplexed, not understanding that this great force of love was bursting its way through me! All those nameless discontents—they were no more than love’s birth-pangs. Ann Veronica felt suddenly an effect of tremendous pathos; she would have given anything to have been able to frame and make some appeal, some utterance that should bridge this bottomless chasm that had opened between her and her father, and she could find nothing whatever to say that was in the least sincere and appealing. Somewhere, where we can talk without interruption. “You shall go,” he declared. “Both!” said Ann Veronica. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. It forbids—all sorts of things. Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit. .
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