“Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. He took some Oreos from the bottomless supply that stocked the cookie jar. He talked in the same style, and pretty nearly in the same language; laughed in the same manner, and coughed, or sneezed at the same time. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. His instinct was in the direction of considering his daughters his absolute property, bound to obey him, his to give away or his to keep to be a comfort in his declining years just as he thought fit. It'll be turning over to-morrow. Nigel, do you know that I have been very jealous?” He avoided the invitation of her eyes.
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