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. Ann Veronica tried to seem absolutely unconcerned. "I'm afraid we'll have to dig into his trunk," he said. Apologizing for their detention, he answered the questions put to him respecting the boys, by positively denying that any such prisoners had been entrusted to his charge, but offered to conduct him to every cell in the building to prove the truth of his assertion. At the bottom of the trunk was a large manila envelope, unmarked. ’ She stopped, for Jack was feebly laughing. Wood by increased corpulence and decreased powers of vision,—by deeper wrinkles and higher shoulders, by scantier breath and a fuller habit. Many’s the bullets I’ve dug out of fellows in my time. “Dear husband,” she murmured. He began to tell me something—and stopped.
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