Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order. I saw the motor dashed to pieces against the wall, and I saw him pitched on his head into the road. Ruth had lived in a world without caresses. He waved an arm and spoke with a peculiar resonance. I had gone further than I meant to—with some Englishmen. Fortescue had not much ability to keep her sister, and a little while after her mother’s death Ann Veronica met Gwen suddenly on the staircase coming from her father’s study, shockingly dingy in dusty mourning and tearful and resentful, and after that Gwen receded from the Morningside Park world, and not even the begging letters and distressful communications that her father and aunt received, but only a vague intimation of dreadfulness, a leakage of incidental comment, flashes of paternal anger at “that blackguard,” came to Ann Veronica’s ears. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. Not even for Ruth could he do such a beastly thing. ” “Please tell me why?” she asked. And she did not merely affect to be driven—she felt driven. He reached a silver cigar and cigarette box from the sideboard and put it before his father-in-law, and for a time the preliminaries of smoking occupied them both. One point in her narrative stood out beyond all others.
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