He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. ‘You see, it is that my papa, he is without sympathy,’ said the lady sadly. Three little letters can’t make a bit of difference. 8 or 1.
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