” She was cowed by the three dead faces that seemed to scream at her to restore order by any means possible, even if it meant forgetting the children of the whore and all the events that had led to her unfortunate situation. ” It occurred to her that she had never seen her father dining out before, never watched him critically as an equal. She was weeping now. She watched the people and hummed softly to herself. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. And as he walked by her side they began a wrangle that was none the less pleasant to Ann Veronica because it served to banish a disagreeable preoccupation. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river.
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