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. "Do you not know me, father?" said the young man, advancing towards him, and warmly grasping his hand. “There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. “I will put the question,” Drummond said gravely. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words.
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