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. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. She held her hand to the place where he had slapped her. ‘His granddaughter?’ ‘Yes, his son’s daughter. ” Her eyes were lit with humour. I guess she used to pick on her for being big and fat.
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