"My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. “Ann Veronica is looking very well, don’t you think?” he said, a little awkwardly. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. He wasn't satisfied with an assured income from the paper-mills your grandfather left us. A bad man, in fact.
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