‘No, let me guess,’ he interrupted. When Ann Veronica got it she had at first a wild, fantastic idea that it contained a tip. I shall make no defence. 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. ‘Kimble, you shouldn’t be here. She felt she had to go on. “I think,” she said, “that I would rather not have anything to say about that man. Don't worry about me. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. She knew that in her new rôle she was as likely as not to be a rank failure. Because she states her case in a tangle, drags it through swamps of nonsense, it doesn’t alter the fact that she is right.
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