Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. ‘As for you—’ ‘Do not address me. You're on the way to big things. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. Father and daughter regarded each other warily, each more than a little insecure with the other. Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. .
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