He stooped to recover it, and his face was hidden. He had had five children at irregular intervals, of whom Ann Veronica was the youngest, so that as a parent he came to her perhaps a little practised and jaded and inattentive; and he called her his “little Vee,” and patted her unexpectedly and disconcertingly, and treated her promiscuously as of any age between eleven and eight-and-twenty. I wouldn’t even have to use very much gasoline. Shotbolt nodded in token of acquiescence, and emitted an odd guttural sound. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. “You mustn’t say anything more to your mother, Michelle. You will torture yourself and torture her all through life; but in the end she will pour the wine of her faith into a sound chalice. She was fatigued physically and mentally, and neither mind nor body could rest. He’d borne mention of the woman’s name. The three of them laughed joyously. Daughters were not like sons.
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