Ann Veronica found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees—almost as if he was a brother. "The worst house in the neighbourhood—the constant haunt of reprobates and thieves," groaned Wood. She had not gone by the name Lucy during those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia Iovelli”. “Don’t they look like a pair of young lovers sleeping off a tryst?” He observed. “Annabel,” she said slowly, “if I fight this thing out myself, can I trust you that it will not be a vain sacrifice? After what you have said it is useless for us to play with words.
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