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. “My dear Vee!” Her voice became very low. “Much better. Herculis was a port city on the Tyrrhenian Sea not far from where the manor had been. “Maternity,” she said, “has been our undoing. I don’t know if I express myself clearly. He wanted to put on his overcoat and come after you and look for you—in London. Capes?” she heard her aunt saying. She let him have it all, as it was, after all, for the last time. Canton was something like a blind alley; unless you were native, you couldn't get anywhere except by returning to Hong-Kong and starting afresh. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. . "No, no, let him alone," interposed Wood.
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