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. Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. The pole-chair caravan resumed its journey. You could return to civilization and have a good time all the rest of your days. I’ve always wanted to look older. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. But she no longer felt Jacomo’s age, even if she looked it.
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