My birthday was on May first. "On my return, I found the window open, and the room vacant. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. Even the children jeer. " And, as he spoke, he took up a sheet of paper, and hastily traced a few lines upon it. “Where were you?” He inquired, rubbing her shoulders. You are NOT going to that ball!” Ann Veronica tried a less genial, more dignified note. Twenty-one, twenty-two.
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