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Part 3 Ann Veronica’s father was a solicitor with a good deal of company business: a lean, trustworthy, worried-looking, neuralgic, clean-shaven man of fifty-three, with a hard mouth, a sharp nose, iron-gray hair, gray eyes, gold-framed glasses, and a small, circular baldness at the crown of his head. Although she had said a great deal when she heard about the shooting that had left poor Jack so badly injured. The old woman told him she had no such article to dispose of, but recommended him to a neighbouring blacksmith. Deep verandas ran around the bungalows, with bamboo drops which were always down in the daytime, fending off the treacherous sunshine. And I have seen work by his pupils myself that struck me as being—well, next door to shameful.
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